


Yesterday

by Eclaire-de-Lune (RoyalHeather)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:59:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3953314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyalHeather/pseuds/Eclaire-de-Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re kidding me,” says Natasha, looking at the frame of wires and steel. “That’s a time machine?”<br/>Tony looks immeasurably smug. “It is not just a time machine, it is <em>the</em> time machine –”<br/>“Well, it depends how you define ‘time machine,’” says Jane. “Actually, its primary mechanics are based on travel through space, not time, although –”</p><p>Natasha gets sent back to 1943 to prevent HYDRA agents from assassinating Steve Rogers before he becomes Captain America. It's harder than it looks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

> The time is out of joint - O curséd spite, that ever I was born to set it right!
> 
> \- _Hamlet,_ I.5.188-189

 

**2018**

 

“You know,” says Natasha, “I’m sure Tony could make you a cellphone that’s spy-proof so you could call like a normal person, instead of just showing up unannounced.”

“I don’t trust technology,” snorts Nick Fury from the chair he’s occupying. “Technology can be compromised.”

“Yeah, well, so can people.” Natasha shuts her apartment door and sets her purse down on the side table. “What is it this time?”

Fury gets to his feet, light from the solitary lamp shining on his head. “You might want to swing by the Avengers base tomorrow evening,” he says. “Say, about seven. Park in garage number four.”

“Got it.” The problem with Fury is that he’s always cagey; this could be a meet-up to prevent the next alien invasion or he could just want her to arbitrate a dispute between Steve and Tony. Natasha moves into the kitchenette, flips on the light. “Seven pm, garage four.”

Walking towards her, Fury reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a plastic card, plain white on both sides. “Parking pass.”

“Thanks,” says Natasha, taking the card. So maybe it’s a little more important than argument mediation then. “Guess I’ll see you there.”

Fury’s already moving towards the door. “Maybe.” He sounds entirely sardonic, but then again, he always does. It’s kind of his shtick. “Take care, Agent Romanoff.”

“Always do.”

\--

The interior of Garage Four, incidentally, looks much less like a parking structure and more like a fluorescent-lit concrete bunker. The first thing Natasha notices, after swiping her card and stepping through the door, is what appears to be a large doorframe constructed of steel and a great deal of cables, complemented by some vaguely glowing points and an ominous electric humming. The area around it is also a mess of boxes and wires and tools, which means… yep, there’s Tony, crouched at the base of the doorframe and making some kind of adjustment. Slightly less expected is Jane Foster, standing behind him with a tablet in her hands, evidently issuing some sort of instructions. Thor’s seated on the table behind her, legs swinging idly, a faint smile on his face as he watches the two of them work.

“Natasha,” says Maria Hill, walking over, tablet in hand and Bluetooth in ear. “Thanks for coming –”

Natasha smiles wryly, shaking her hand. “I assume when Fury comes calling, I don’t really have a choice.”

Maria laughs. “Oh, he wishes,” she says. “This way.”

They walk towards the frame, skirting piles of mechanical bits and pieces. “Hey,” says Tony, barely looking up, and Jane gives Natasha a brief smile and wave before returning to her work, but Thor slides off the table and strides over. “Natasha,” he beams, pulling her into a bear hug. “How are you?”

“Better now,” she says, smiling. Thor’s good mood is so infectious that it’s probably got its own file at the CDC. “How are you? I heard about that thing, with the serpent, and the fishing –”

“Oh, that,” laughs Thor. “Yes, that was an adventure, if only we had time for the telling –”

“Are we starting?” asks Jane.

“Soon,” says Maria. “We’re just waiting for Rogers –”

“Nope, nope, I’m here,” Steve says, the door closing behind him. “Hey, everyone.”

Everyone moves to greet him, and even Tony stops what he’s doing. “The Capsicle returns,” he says. “And only a couple minutes late too.”

“Ah, well, traffic,” says Steve with a weary smile.

Smirking, Natasha goes over to him and gives him a hug; he’s as musclebound as ever, although significantly tanner. “Hey, good to see you,” she says. “How was the honeymoon?”

“Fantastic,” says Steve. “Amazing. Bucky didn’t want to leave, I had to physically drag him back onto the plane.”

“Where is he, by the way?” asks Maria. “He was welcome to join us.”

“Yeah, we figured it was better he stay home,” says Steve. “He’s still kind of jetlagged.”

Looking up at Steve, Natasha sees fine lines around his mouth, the beginnings of circles under his eyes. “Steve,” she says quietly.

“Really, it’s just jetlag,” he says, blue eyes warm as ever, and Natasha tries to believe him. “I’m still a little out of it myself. He’s fine. We’re fine.”

“All right.” Steve doesn’t blame her for worrying though, and who would? One doesn’t recover from decades of brainwashing and psychological torture just like that, regardless of how many patented Rogers Hugs™ one gets.

Natasha would know.

“Well, now that we’re all here, let’s explain what’s happening,” says Maria. “Everyone, find a seat, I’m afraid there’s going to be a lot of exposition.”

Thor goes back to his table – it creaks a little under his weight – and pulls Jane onto his knee. Tony, standing by the frame, very clearly wants to keep working on it; Natasha can see his eyes running over it, his fingers tapping restlessly. Meanwhile Steve pulls over a couple of crates and seats himself on one of them, while Natasha takes the other.

“Right,” says Maria. “Well, first things first. Steve, someone’s trying to kill you.”

Steve goes stiff and tense beside Natasha. “You mean someone besides the usual Hydra mooks,” she says.

“Well, no.” Maria picks up a binder from the nearby table. “In fact, the interesting thing isn’t who’s trying to kill Steve, it’s _when_.”

“What,” says Steve.

“In the early 70’s,” says Maria, “HYDRA sent two agents back thirty years to kill Steve before he ever got a chance to destroy HYDRA. And now we’re sending someone back to make sure they fail.”

This must be old news to Tony, Jane, and Thor, because they don’t look surprised at all. “I –” says Steve, and “ _What –_ ”

“You’re kidding me,” says Natasha, looking at the frame of wires and steel. “That’s a time machine?”

Tony looks immeasurably smug. “It is not just a time machine, it is _the_ time machine –”

“Well, it depends how you define ‘time machine,’” says Jane. “Actually, its primary mechanics are based on travel through space, not time, although –”

“Time machine,” says Steve, deadpan. Natasha glances at him with a flash of realization that this means something entirely different for him; his jaw is set, his brow furrowed. “And it works?”

“Short answer, yes,” says Maria. “Long answer, we’ll get to that in a second.”

“Yeah,” says Steve. “So going back to how someone’s trying to kill me –”

Maria passes out stapled papers from the binder. Natasha takes hers, scans through it – it’s photocopied HYDRA files, detailing mission parameters, profiling two operatives, the target Steve Rogers, the year 1943 –

“We recovered these files after the exposure of HYDRA and SHIELD’s dismantling,” says Maria. “It’s records of a project in 1973 to send an agent back in time to assassinate Steve Rogers before he became Captain America, before Erskine selected him for the super soldier program. As far as plans go, it’s a fairly logical one – kill Steve before he ever had a chance to deal to HYDRA the damage he did. However, clearly the assassin failed. His corpse and that of a second operative sent to recover him were found by HYDRA several years after they left, in the New York woods.”

Everyone looks at Steve expectantly; he shrugs. “They did a pretty poor job then,” he says. “I don’t even remember any attempts.”

“No weird accidents, no close misses, nothing like that?”

“Nope,” said Steve. “I mean, I got beat up a lot in alleys, but usually that was because I’d already done something to tick the other guy off.” He frowns, considering. “Although, I was in and out of the hospital a lot, had some pretty bad pneumonia attacks that put me out of commission. Maybe someone attempted something then and I just didn’t notice.”

“But whatever happened, Steve’s alive,” says Natasha. “They didn’t succeed, so why –”

“– do we need to send someone back?” says Tony, straightening and starting to pace. “Excellent question, I’m glad you asked –”

“We need to send someone because we know we already did,” says Maria.

There is a very long silence as Natasha and Steve process this. “Shit,” says Steve at last, dropping his face into his hand. “Time travel, man.”

“It’s me,” says Natasha. “I went back in time.” Why else would she be here?

“Look on page five,” says Maria.

Natasha flips to it; there’s a black-and-white picture of a long-dead corpse, dirt filling in the gaps in its withered skull. Beside that picture is another image, a coin, with two initials in Russian etched onto its face. _N.R._

“That was discovered in his mouth,” Maria says. “DNA testing later confirmed that to be the initial agent sent after Steve.”

“But –” Natasha frowns at the coin, that is her handwriting, she knows it. “Why would I do that?”

“As a sign to yourself, most likely.” Maria looks genuinely sympathetic. “So you know to go back.”

“I mean, it makes sense,” says Tony. “Out of all of us you’ve got the best spy or counter-spy skills, except maybe for Barnes, and there’s obvious reasons why we can’t send him back, space-time paradoxes being one of them. Paradoxes? Paradoces. Paradoxi –”

“There’s Clint,” says Natasha mechanically, still staring at her initials on a seventy-year-old coin.

“There’s only a handful of people I’d trust to save my life before I even met them,” says Steve. “Clint’s my buddy, but he’s not one of them. You are.”

“Thanks.” She’s no longer blindsided by Steve’s faith in her, but it’s good to hear reaffirmation of it all the same. “So we’re sure –”

“We need you to go back,” says Maria. “For all we know, you’re the only thing that prevented the HYDRA operatives from carrying out their mission. And history would look very different, not just for America but the world, if Steve dies before he ever takes out HYDRA and the Red Skull.”

“We wouldn’t even be here,” says Jane softly.

“Which means we’d never build this time machine, and Nat would never go back in time to save Steve –” Tony frowns down at the screwdriver in his hands like he has no idea how it got there. “How the hell did we end up on this side of the time loop?”

“I’m not complaining,” says Steve.

“So assuming I do go back, which, apparently, I will,” says Natasha, “what happens if I just go up to Steve and start talking to him?”

“Well, technically,” says Tony, “we don’t really know –”

“But you won’t.” Steve is frowning at her, and Natasha’s glad someone’s as confused as she is. “You didn’t. I don’t remember it –”

“But what if I _did –_ ”

“But you _won’t_.” Jane looks more or less assured of her answer. “Everything you’re going to do has already been done.”

“So all my actions are predetermined?” That rankles with Natasha, deeply and uncomfortably.

“Only a few,” says Maria. “We know you leave the coin behind, and we know you never cross paths with Steve. Other than that…”

“But I’ll only be doing those things because you’re telling me right now that I have to do them,” says Natasha. “There’s nothing actually preventing me from changing something –”

“Speaking as an expert in quantum physics, I would stay away from that,” says Jane. “We’re still not really sure what the full extent of what we’re dealing with is. Trying to change events we know happened – especially those that lead to your time travel in the first place – could have potentially cosmic effects. It’s better to play safe than sorry.”

“It may be easier to act once you are in the moment,” says Thor. “Visions are a common part of Asgardian culture. Often the most damage is done when one takes specific steps to either avoid or ensure a vision happens.”

“You said you know this thing works.” Steve does not look happy at all. “How?”

“Ah, yes, if everyone will _finally_ let me speak –” Tony reaches around to the table behind him and picks up a slightly battered sneaker. It looks completely normal, except written on the bottom of it in block letters is _TONY – 2018. KEEP THIS._

“So, funny thing happened to me some years back,” says Tony. “I was on my balcony, minding my own business, when out of nowhere a shoe hits me in the back of the head. Well, that’s weird, I think. There’s no one around, although for all I know it might have been you or Clint playing some kind of prank. So I pick up the shoe and this is written on the bottom.” He bounces the sneaker in his hand, and Natasha notices for the first time the lines of silver hair at his temples. We’re all getting old, she thinks. “Enough weird shit happens to me that I’m like, what the hell, might as well keep it. I stuff it in a box, forget all about it, until…”

“Until we discovered these files four years ago and I asked Tony and Jane to start work on a time machine,” says Maria.

“Even then, the pieces didn’t click. It was only a couple weeks ago when we really got it working and I started thinking of how we could test it that I remembered, the stupid shoe. Pepper’d just bought me a new pair of sneakers, and sure enough, the exact same ones. So I wrote a message to myself on it and tossed it seven years into the past.”

“And that worked,” murmurs Natasha. “Unbelievable.”

“Isn’t it?” says Jane. She’s beaming, looking as fondly on the time machine as one might a first-born child. “I’m still amazed we got it as functional as it is.”

“We’ve actually had this finished for about a week now,” says Tony. “But we thought we’d wait until the Dynamic Married Duo got back to bring everyone together. Didn’t want to interrupt the honeymoon.”

“How exactly does it work, anyway?” asks Steve.

“You remember ‘distance equals rate times time?’” says Tony. “Yeah, start with that, throw in a shitload of quantum physics, some Asgardian portal fuckery, and some stuff with magnets that would make the entire scientific world go mental, and you’ve got a time machine.”

“Essentially, what we’ve done is layered almost an infinite amount of portals on top of each other,” says Jane. “As you travel through them, the effect gets compounded until you’re travelling through time, as well as space… It’s actually way more complicated than it sounds.”

“I believe it,” mutters Steve, his face propped on one fist.

“Wait a minute,” says Natasha. “What’s powering all this? If you’ve got _multiple portals_ …”

“Um,” says Tony, and Maria for the first time looks less than pleased. “Don’t tell anyone, but…we kind of borrowed the Tesseract.”

“I’m loaning it to them, actually,” says Thor. “It was the least I could do.”

“Well, I for one am very grateful,” says Tony. “Otherwise I’d have had to build a whole new mega-arc reactor, and I was _not_ looking forward to that…”

“I am just grateful I could contribute.”

“Don’t say that,” murmurs Jane, her fingers laced through Thor’s. “You were very helpful, you explained some crucial concepts regarding the portals…”

“Thank you,” and he smiles down at her, “but I am afraid I am still far more a warrior than a scholar –”

“Shut up, you were invaluable,” says Tony. “But, um, yeah, that brings me to another important point, which is this is essentially running on borrowed power. So no quick jaunts to the past – or future – for sightseeing or anything like that. Even though some of us would _really_ like to see Led Zeppelin in concert.” He sighs, theatrically wistful. “This is for essential trips only.”

“Well, I’m flattered that saving me makes the criteria,” says Steve, dry.

“It’s not ready to go as of yet,” says Maria. “The machine’s operational, but there’s still more testing to be done before we’re ready to send anyone back a significant amount of time. We just wanted to bring you two in and make sure you were on board before proceeding any further.”

“Well, sure,” says Steve. “I mean, I’m not exactly going to complain about something that’s going to save my life, you know?”

Silence falls after he speaks; Natasha is aware of everyone looking at her, knows that the only go-ahead that really matters is hers. “Looks like I’m going whether I want to or not,” she says. “Past me already decided that. Or future me. Whatever.”

“At least you know you’ll succeed.” Jane is trying very hard to present it as positive, and Natasha’s not sure how she feels about that. “You know they won’t kill Steve.”

“True,” says Natasha. “But I don’t know if I’ll make it back, do I?”

A very uncomfortable silence spreads around the room, Maria looking down at her papers as if they’ll somehow give her the answer. Natasha knots her fingers together in her lap, keeps everything under firm control. Just another mission, she tells herself. You don’t know if you’ll survive, just like every other task you’ve been assigned. At least this time completing the objective is guaranteed.

“Nat –” says Steve quietly.

“No, I’ll do it,” she says. After all this time, she is not going to let a time machine get the best of her. “I’ll go.”

“Well,” says Tony, straightening and clapping his hands together. “Now that that’s settled, would you kindly all shoo, the Lady Jane and I have some very important work to be getting done.”

There’s little point in lingering. Natasha walks out with Steve, who stifles a yawn behind a fist as they step out the door. “Sorry,” he says, once he’s stopped yawning. “Jetlag.”

“What do you know, it affects even you superhumans,” says Natasha fondly. “Go home and get some sleep. And say hi to Bucky for me.”

“Will do.”

\--

“Time machine,” says Clint.

“Yup.”

“ _Time machine._ ”

“Yyyyyup.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He’s on the phone, so she can’t see what face he’s making, but judging by his tone she’d guess a mixture of bemusement and being just plain _done_. Natasha stares out at the skyline of New York from the balcony of her apartment. “That was pretty much my reaction too.”

“So they’re sending you back in time to save Steve Rogers, and thus the free world as we know it?”

“More or less, yeah.”

“Huh.” Static briefly crackles on the other end. “At least you know Rogers’ll make it.”

“Yeah, not so sure about me,” says Natasha, too lightly.

“Nah, you’ll land on your feet, just like you always do.”

The wind ruffles her hair; it’s a nice day, late spring, a few clouds brushing the sky. “Clint?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Come up to New York. If you can.” She knows he’s on a job, but last she heard it wasn’t too critical. And deep down, she wants him here. Beside her.

“Yeah, sure thing.” It’s the subtlest shift in his voice, one she wouldn’t pick up if she didn’t know him so well, moving from matter-of-fact towards warm and tender. “Just got a couple of things to take care of, and then I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

> "That's the thing about time travel - you're always moving forward, even when you go back."
> 
> \- _Here, There Be Dragons,_ James Owen.

 

Some parts of the preparation process are fun, like getting to play dress-up with Steve and pick out a suitably period-appropriate wardrobe. It’s not like there’s a shortage of information either on the internet or in museums, but Steve has an artist’s eye for detail, and as he says, he’s “authentic.” And it takes some of the stress off, in a way, getting to joke about this one small thing.

Bucky, on the other hand, is significantly less helpful – understandably so, but it’s not just the HYDRA-induced memory loss. “Look,” he says, as Natasha drapes another two dresses she’s “borrowing” from the local theater over the back of his and Steve’s couch, “I never paid much attention to dresses, you know? It was ‘this one’s pretty, this one’s red,’ never got much beyond that.”

“Yeah,” says Steve. “It’s because you couldn’t take your eyes off me.”

“Punk.”

“Jerk.”

Other parts of the process are significantly less pleasant. The first time Natasha steps through the machine (or as Tony has dubbed it, Emmett – it doesn’t talk _yet_ , but she’s sure it will) is two days after they were first called together. She’s sitting on a crate in Garage Four, watching Tony fiddle with wires and what appears to be a robot arm while Jane types calculations into a tablet, the tip of her tongue sticking out in concentration. Tony, on the other hand, is running his mouth off – “I’m still geeking out about this. Are you geeking out? I’m freaking out. I mean, freaking geeking out. Not freaking out.”

Logically, the fact that they’re both nervous should worry Natasha, but somehow she finds herself growing calmer in opposition.

“So essentially this functions like a radio,” Jane says. “We set it to send, pick a specific time and place –”

“Which is incredibly difficult, by the way,” interrupts Tony. “You have to account for Earth rotating, its path around the sun, the fact that the solar system itself is fucking moving –”

“It’s been very complicated,” says Jane wearily.

“But anyway, yeah, it works pretty much like a radio.” Tony has put down the robot arm and is circling Emmett, looking very badly like he wants to fiddle with _something_. “We pick a time and place, send you there. Then to bring someone back, we switch it to receive, set it to a pre-agreed upon time and place, and wait for them to step through.”

“So whatever you do, _don’t_ _forget your return coordinates,_ ” says Jane. “Even with the Tesseract, this still uses an incredible amount of power, we can’t leave it on for extended periods of time. Besides, we don’t want anyone – or anything – accidentally coming through.”

“What happens if I do miss the rendezvous?” asks Natasha.

Tony and Jane exchange looks. “We’re still figuring that out,” she says. “Probably reopen it on five-minute intervals. I’m not sure if the portal can be open to the same time/space location more than once, and honestly I don’t think I want to test that out. Not yet.”

“Got it,” says Natasha. Honestly, it’s not like it’s much different from any other mission with a specific extraction point. The time frame’s just a little different, is all. “So where are we sending me today?”

“We thought we’d keep it simple for the first test run,” says Jane. “So exactly five years ago, just off the shores of the Hudson. There should be nobody around.”

“Should,” murmurs Natasha.

“Hopefully it won’t put you straight into a tree,” says Tony.

She _thinks_ he’s joking. “Right,” she says, standing up, brushing off the front of her catsuit. “And my return time?”

“Exact same place, exactly ten seconds from when you arrive,” says Jane. “So don’t lose count.” Natasha looks down at the watch on her wrist – it’s very new, very shiny, and very digital, courtesy of Stark Labs. Right now it’s ten thirty-two in the morning, with the seconds ticking up twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…

“Okay.” Natasha positions herself in front of the frame, all she needs is one step to take her through it. “Ready when you are.”

Tony, holding a tablet connected by wire to Emmett, looks to Jane. She nods.

“All right,” says Tony, moving a slider up. “Powering up to fifty percent, seventy-five, ninety –”

The ever-present electric humming kicks into overdrive, filling the air with the sound of power lines sizzling. The hairs on the back of Natasha’s neck tingle, and the smell of ozone fills the air.

“Activating in three – two – one –” Tony has to shout over the noise of the humming.

The lights dim, the way they do when someone runs a microwave, and a second sound is introduced under the humming, a faint crystalline reverberating. The air in front of Natasha seems to ripple, ever so slightly, a pale blue glow ringing the inside of the frame.

“Now!” yells Jane.

Natasha sucks in a deep breath and steps through.

It feels like an electric current passing through her body, too quick for pain, and then she’s standing on grass in the morning sunlight, staring at trees. Time, she thinks, check your watch. She’s got ten seconds from now –

Natasha whips around to see if the portal’s behind her. She can’t tell. It’s just the river and the opposite forested bank. Bird song chirps away sporadically.

Nine –

Other than a slight ringing in her ears, she feels fairly normal.

Eight –

Natasha exhales slowly, wonders if travelling back the full seventy-five years will feel any different.

Seven –

Ten seconds is a long time.

Six –

She is not going to think about what happens if the portal doesn’t open.

Five –

Still not going to think about it –

Four – three – two – one –

Maybe she’s imagining it, but she hears a faint buzzing, and the air in front of her shimmers vaguely. Natasha steps forward –

– and is back in Garage Four, surrounded by cool cement and blue lights. “Away from the portal, away from the portal –” Jane is saying, pulling on Natasha’s arm. Natasha moves with her mechanically, aware the electric humming is powering down. “How do you feel?”

“Fine,” she says, and then the world tilts sharply and Jane has a death grip on her arm.

“Whoa, hey there!” Suddenly Tony is supporting her on her other side as Natasha struggles to keep her knees from giving out. “Here, sit here – shit, maybe we should have a fainting couch –”

Somehow she’s seated on a crate; Natasha leans over with her elbows on her knees, closes her eyes. The ringing in her ears ebbs and flows in time with her pulse, and she exhales slowly.

The dizziness passes. Natasha looks up to see Tony and Jane both standing over her, both looking blatantly worried. “I’m fine,” says Natasha. “Just dizzy.” There’s cold sweat on her forehead, but other than that she feels mostly okay.

“I mean, it’s to be expected,” says Jane, turning to Tony.

“Yeah,” he responds. “Honestly, I’m impressed you didn’t hurl.”

“No promises for future trips,” Natasha says dryly. “You might want to invest in a bucket.”

“Bucket, chaise longue, got it. Maybe some smelling salts too.”

“But I mean – it works, right?” says Jane. “You went back?”

“I assume so.” Natasha straightens, rolls her shoulders back. “It was definitely the Hudson, but there weren’t any helpful newspapers lying around to tell me the date.”

“But you went _somewhere_ , and you came back,” says Tony. “I’d call that a definite success.”

\--

It sounds silly to say that she and Clint, two ex-assassins who fight alongside supersoldiers, demigods, and ascended AI, have a secret knock, but… at the end of the day, that’s what it is. It’s nice, though, to hear a certain knock at the door and know she doesn’t have to check to make sure her gun’s in her back pocket before she answers it.

“Hey,” says Clint, grinning, when she opens the apartment door. He’s got a case of beer in one hand and a plastic bag of Chinese takeout in the other. “How’re you doing?”

“Not too bad, all things considered.” She relieves him of the beer – it’s the good kind, Belgian, imported – and pushes aside some of the clutter on the coffee table. “You?”

“Ahh, could be better.” He sits, favoring his left leg, and gingerly props his feet up on the table. “Goddamn H.A.M.M.E.R. grunts, one of ‘em kicked me in the knee –”

“I thought you were going after A.I.M. agents.” Natasha extricates the food containers from the plastic bag along with two pairs of chopsticks.

“Was I? Shit, I can’t keep them straight any more, it all just kinda blurs together…” Clint tips his head back against the sofa, staring at nothing. Natasha smirks, balling up the plastic bag to be later stuffed inside a larger bag with its compatriots, and goes to the kitchen to grab a bottle opener.

The topic of the time machine isn’t brought up until all the Chinese food is consumed and they’ve each got a beer in them. Natasha, full of food and approaching comfortable sleepiness, tucks her feet under her and curls up against Clint’s side.

“Hey, there.” He wraps an arm around her, nuzzles her hair. “So this whole time machine thing…”

“I went through for the first time today,” she says, toying with the empty beer bottle on the table. “It went pretty smooth.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Just the Hudson, five years ago. Nothing special.”

“Mm.” His fingers trace circles on her upper arm. “How’d it go?”

“Surprisingly well. I didn’t get lost in the space-time vortex, at least.”

“Oh, well, that’s always good.” Clint rests his cheek on her hair, tucks her closer against his side. “It’d suck if that happened.”

“Mm?”

“Yeah, it’d really ruin my day.”

Chuckling, Natasha looks at him – there’s a tiny hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Your whole day, huh? I’m flattered, Barton.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

\--

The nice thing about travelling back in time is there’s no rush or deadline to meet. As Jane says, “It doesn’t matter when you leave, it just matters when you get there.” So they take their time, send Natasha back on a couple more test runs. There seems to be no consistency to the adverse effects of time travel; when Natasha jumps back twenty years, she gets nauseous on arrival but is completely fine when she returns to 2018, but when she goes back fifty years she experiences neither dizziness nor nausea, but the second she returns to the present she comes down with a killer nosebleed that sends Tony scrambling for tissues.

“I don’t know if this is something we can fix,” frets Jane, crouched next to Natasha. “Thor says the same kind of symptoms appear in Asgardians who spend their whole lives travelling through portals, and you’re doing the same thing in one trip, plus you’re human…”

Natasha, seated on a crate with her head tipped forward, checks the wad of tissues to see if the bleeding’s stopped. “I’m surprised this is it, honestly.”

“If this is what fifty years does, what about seventy-five?”

“It’s just a nosebleed, I’ve had worse,” Natasha points out.

“Yeah, as long as it’s a vein in your nose that pops and not, you know, your brain,” says Tony. He’s pacing, chewing on a pen, eyes focused on the middle distance. “There’s got to be something we can do…”

“We know I get there in one piece,” says Natasha. “Clearly it won’t be that bad.”

“Well, we’d like you to get back in one piece as well.”

There’s still that little spark of warmth from hearing it’s not just the mission they’re worried about, it’s her. “I’ll be fine.” She moves the tissues to a clean patch, checks for fresh red. The bleeding’s definitely slowing.

“Maybe we should send Vision instead,” says Tony. “I bet he’d be okay –”

“Yeah, because a flying red man with a gem in his forehead is totally going to blend into 1940’s Manhattan,” says Jane.

“I dunno, maybe there’s some non-medically-invasive way to boost your strength or endurance or – shit, I just thought of something. Have you had all your shots?”

\--

“I mean, I’m not even sure if this is going to work,” says Bruce, picking up another syringe. “The tuberculosis I’m vaccinating you for could be significantly different from the TB present in Steve’s time –”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Natasha’s been saying that a lot lately.

“Mm.” Bruce slides the needle into her upper arm; her other arm already aches from two injections. They’re in the infirmary of Avengers Tower, rather than Avengers HQ, mostly just to avoid questions from curious passing staff. “And you’re not worried about this at all?”

“No,” she lies.

“Not even a little bit?” Bruce pulls out the needle and presses a cottonball to the spot. “I mean, I don’t think you’d be human if you weren’t.”

Natasha shrugs her free shoulder. “That’s been debated.”

“Tony has some interesting notions about what does and doesn’t constitute humanity.” The fourth needle bites as it breaks through her skin.

“I think Tony just has some interesting notions in general.”

\--

“Yeah, so here’s the building I lived in,” says Steve. They’re leaning over the street map of Brooklyn spread over his kitchen table, him and Natasha and Bucky. “Front entrance was on this street, but if you went around back through this alley there was a sort of yard that you could get directly to my apartment from.” He looks up at Bucky for a response, but Bucky’s frowning at the map, lips pursed.

“Oranges,” he says.

“Sorry?”

Bucky presses a metal fingertip to a street intersection on the map. “There,” he says. “Corner of Remsen and Clinton. There was little old lady who was always standing there, selling oranges. Every day, rain or shine, didn’t matter.” He looks up at Steve with a little smile. “Remember the orange lady?”

“Yeah, I do,” says Steve, fondly. Natasha’s not sure if the affection in his voice is for Bucky, or the memory, or both. “I wonder what happened to her, she was still there when I left…”

“Orange lady, noted,” says Natasha. “At least I won’t get scurvy.”

Steve flushes slightly, though Natasha doesn’t blame him for the brief stroll down memory lane. “Anyway,” he says. “You can probably get a place in the same building, although if there’s nothing there this street over here had some pretty decent housing too. I guess price range isn’t as much of an issue. Oh, and also,” he says, spreading a hand over the area around his apartment, “just so you know, very active gay community all through here.”[1]

“No shit?”

“You bet,” snorts Bucky. “And people acted like me and Stevie being a thing was such a weird fuckin’ deal.”

They continue going over the map, until at some point Natasha excuses herself to use the restroom. As she’s washing her hands, she hears Bucky in the other room say, “Look, I still don’t see why I can’t go too –”

Natasha turns off the faucet, wipes her hands on a towel. “Buck –” Steve sounds like they’ve been over this a thousand times. They probably have.

“I know the area, I know the time, I can fight, why shouldn’t I go –”

“What if you run into someone who knows you? What if you cross paths with me?”

“I didn’t, you’d remember that. And no one else would recognize me.” Natasha leans against the counter, head tilted to hear better.

“What if you run into yourself?”

“I didn’t.”

“How do you know that?”

Bucky sounds much less sure of himself. “I don’t remember it.”

“Buck…”

“I think I’d remember something like that, brainwashing or no,” says Bucky heatedly. “Shit like that tends to stick –”

“You don’t have to protect me all the time,” says Steve, very gently. “You don’t need to.”

There’s silence, for long enough that Natasha decides they’ve ended their argument. She opens the door with more noise than she normally would, sees Bucky slide out of an embrace with Steve. Neither one looks particularly happy, but hey, at least they’re hugging it out. “Don’t let me interrupt,” she says brightly.

“Nah, it’s – it’s fine,” says Steve, looking at the floor and rubbing the back of his neck. Bucky’s leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms folded, and although he’s smiling there’s a bitter twist to it. “Do you want to keep going over the map?”

“I think I’m good for now,” says Natasha, staying casual. “Gotta let all this sink in before I come back for more information, you know?”

“Sure,” says Steve.

“Great.” Natasha grabs her jacket and purse, Bucky pulling away from the counter to give her a goodbye hug. “Till next time, boys.”

\--

She’s got a suitcase packed with clothes, necessary hygiene products, a few (more than a few) wads of cash, a laser pistol cleverly modified to look like a 1940’s handgun, an actual 1940’s handgun, as well as a few other gadgets that might come in handy. Also in the suitcase (per Steve’s recommendation) are several books, since no internet and no friends is going to mean a significant amount of quiet time. She’s got fake cards identifying her as a reporter, labeled “Natalie Roman.” Thank goodness her hair’s grown out a bit since she last cropped it short and it’s still got its natural curl, she won’t have to fiddle with it too much. Makeup she won’t bother with at all.

(They did several wardrobe, hair, and makeup tests beforehand, to see what looked right. There’d been a moment where she looked at herself in the mirror, dressed in period clothes, with the scarlet lipstick, the curls, everything, and had the odd sense she wasn’t seeing herself at all, but looking at someone else entirely. Steve, standing beside her, looked like he was thinking the same thing. And then Bucky poked his head in and suggested that actually, red lipstick was kind of a surefire way to grab people’s attention, which was the opposite of what she wanted, and Natasha promptly wiped it off. She had never been a fan of the color red anyway.)

Everything’s all put together, she might as well step through the door now. After all, as Tony keeps saying, they’re not getting any younger.

\--

Breath rushes in and out like ocean waves, pulses thud, skin presses against skin. Clint’s lips are hot on her throat, his weight anchoring her to the mattress. Sliding her hands down his back, Natasha traces scars and the contours of muscles, the lamplight shining red-gold through her eyelids. There is nothing else, no time machine, just this, the push and pull of lips, hips, her body going up in flames…

After, Natasha curls around Clint, trying to retain as much warmth as possible. Clint chuckles softly, brushes a strand of sweaty hair off her forehead. “Like a heat-seeking missile,” he murmurs.

“Mrm,” says Natasha into his shoulder.

They lay in silence for a long time, Natasha content to listen to his steady breathing while Clint traces slow patterns on her back. Eventually it is Clint who breaks the silence. “Are you worried about tomorrow?”

Clint’s heartbeat is a slow, steady rhythm in her ear. “Yes,” she says.

His fingers move up to the base of her neck, start rubbing away the tension she only half-knew she’d been carrying. “You’ll do fine, I know that.”

“Why, because Steve is still alive –”

“No, because you’re you. Well, and also because the corpse of a HYDRA agent turned up with your initials on a coin in his mouth.”

“I can’t believe I did that,” she grumbles. “It’s so unrefined.”

“Well, you had to make a statement, you know? Make sure someone recorded it.”

“Still.”

“C’mon.” Clint’s hand travels down her shoulders, slowly massaging away knots. “What’s got you worried, specifically?”

Natasha sighs, shifting against Clint; the lamplight picks out little gold sparks on his hair. “If something goes south I’ll have no way direct communication with any of you –”

“Chechnya, 2011,” says Clint. “You were stuck for three weeks trying to nab a rogue intelligence agent before the KGB did with no electricity, signal, and a busted communicator. Fury was about to send someone in after you when you showed up at the S.H.I.E.L.D base in Armenia with him in custody.”

Natasha remembers that assignment, although personally it wasn’t one of her best. “There’s also the fact that I have about zero margin for error when it comes to getting back –”

“Hey, remember when we had to helicopter out of that one town in Argentina exactly five seconds before the volcano blew or we’d be stuck there for days?”

“That’s not nearly the same,” says Natasha with a snort.

“It kinda is.”

“No, it’s not.” She wrinkles her nose at Clint; he meets her eyes, a hand cupped under her chin.

“Anything else?”

“Steve,” she says. ‘I don’t know what’ll be stranger, if he’s different from how I know him now or if he’s the same…”

“Huh.” Clint looks down at her seriously; there’s circles under his eyes, deep lines framing his mouth, and his face has always been like that, more or less, but suddenly Natasha can’t stand it, she wants to smooth them all away. “Can’t help you with that one.”

“I know.” Natasha sighs, settling her head back against his shoulder, grateful for his tactile warmth and solidity. “It’s probably the least of my worries anyway.”

\--

They’re all in Garage Four, and by they Natasha means herself, Tony, Jane, Thor, Clint, Steve, Bucky, and Maria. It doesn’t escape her attention that she, Tony, Jane and Maria are the only ones who really need to be there; everyone else is present for what comes down to emotional support. Surrounded by boxes and wires and glowing screens, Natasha feels extraordinarily out of place in her 40’s dress and trenchcoat, but then again that’s hopefully changing very soon.

“Are we ready?” asks Maria.

“Yyyep,” says Tony. He’s gotten better at controlling his jitters, or he’s just so intensely focused they’re not even registering. Jane looks equally determined. “Nat, you ready?”

She’s been sitting on her suitcase like the heroine of a heartwarming novel about an orphan girl; standing, she smoothes down the front of her coat. “Mm-hm.”

“Hey, good luck,” says Steve, coming forward and giving her a hug. “Say hi to 1943 for me.”

“Any messages you two want me to give?” says Natasha. She’s only half-joking, although she’s pretty sure the Barnes family wouldn’t take kindly to a mysterious woman telling them she had a message from their ex-assassin cyborg son in 2018.

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “Do me a favor and punch Johann Shmidt in the face. Or Hitler. Either one.”

“That’s my job,” murmurs Steve.

Natasha grabs the handle of her suitcase, walks to stand in front of the frame. It looks so innocuous, clean steel and neatly bundled wires, a few lights here and there.

“Hey,” says Clint, from where he’s perched on a crate, eyes burning. “You come back, you hear?”

Natasha nods.

“Powering up,” says Tony, and the air begins vibrating. “Fifty percent, seventy-five, ninety –”

Jane looks as focused and fierce as if she were the one going through. “Activating in three – two – one –”

The frame powers on, crystalline blue dancing around its edges. Natasha steps forward to go through, but before she does, she can’t resist looking behind her, at all of them watching with bated breath.

“Don’t worry, guys,” she says. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

And she walks through.

 

[1] http://thingswithwings.dreamwidth.org/213805.html


	3. Chapter 3

> TG: the thing with time travel is  
>  TG: you cant over think it  
>  TG: just roll with it and see what happens  
>  TG: and above all try not to do anything retarded  
> 
> 
> \- _Homestuck,_ Andrew Hussie

 

**1943**

 

The first thing she notices is how clear and sharp everything is. Not that she’d really been expecting things to be grainy and sepia-toned like old film, but the fact that it’s as clear as modern day surprises her, just a little. Then she notices the smell, tar and sulfur and a great deal of car exhaust, and at the same time the noise, this not so different from modern New York after all. Cars. Shouting. The muffled background noise of millions of people all living and working in close proximity to each other. It’s warm, as well.

The time machine brought her through into the corner of an alleyway, tucked behind a large and ugly building – she can’t see the street from here, just dirty walls. There’s a pile of paper trash in one corner.

Cautiously, she steps out into the alleyway, one hand firmly grasping the handle of her suitcase. Natasha sweeps her eyes over every detail, memorizing; it’s not like she doesn’t know the coordinates (intersection of Aitken and Sydney), but it doesn’t hurt to have an exact visual reference as well.

It’s a five-minute walk from here to Steve’s building. Natasha slips into the flow of pedestrians and this is easy, this is what she knows how to do. It’s not just about personal protection. Any chance interaction, any change in someone else’s life could have unintended ripple consequences through the rest of history, and they can’t have that. So Natasha becomes invisible.

She reaches Steve’s apartment with no issue. Well, she’s lived in worse, she thinks pragmatically. One of the bases the KGB had her operating out of for a while was in the Russian ghetto.

The landlady has hairy forearms and sweat beading her upper lip, and looks entirely capable of keeping the local riffraff under control, which Natasha appreciates. “You’re in luck,” she says, Brooklyn accent strong. “We got a flat just opened up, second floor, furnished. It’s round the back of the building, you can get to it straight from the alley…”

Natasha smiles, bland and polite. “That sounds great.” It’s too much of a coincidence, that an apartment so close to Steve’s is free, just at this time. But she’s going to take it.

“Here,” she says, pulling a handful of bills out of her purse and placing it on the desk. The landlady takes the toothpick she’s been chewing out of her mouth, picks them up to count. “That should cover this month?”

It’s just enough. Natasha clutches her hands together, like she’s anxious she doesn’t have the funds.

“Yeah,” grunts the landlady. “Nice to meet you, Miss – what was it?”

“Roman. Natalie Roman.”

It’s May 25th, 1943. In one week, the HYDRA operative is going to come through the time machine, and in three Steve Rogers will meet Abraham Erskine for the first time.

\--

Steve’s apartment, as it transpires, is directly to the left of hers. Entirely too coincidental for her not to be worried about this.

She sees him within a few hours of the first day, as he leaves. He’s so _small_ , and it’s more jarring than anything else, seeing the face she knows so well not only younger, but on a stranger’s body.

For now Natasha doesn’t tail him, there’s no point, not until the HYDRA operative arrives. When he does, however, it’ll make much more sense to take a defensive stance, focus on protecting Steve from any threats rather than actively seeking out the operative. The file didn’t specify a location any further than “Brooklyn, New York City, New York, United States of America.”

It makes Natasha uneasy, not knowing what the enemy will be doing. But at least she has her mark, and although she can’t talk to Steve, she can shadow him, and when she does on the second day (just a low-key sort of thing, to get a feel for what his schedule’s like) Natasha discovers that Steve was a danger to himself long before he started jumping out of airplanes without parachutes or flipping motorcycles into jeeps.

In that first day alone of her watching him he gets in one, almost two altercations. He’s not picking fights so much as rushing in to defend others, as far as she can tell. Both times he’s saved from being beaten to a pulp by the aggressor’s evident disinterest in pursuing the conflict; whether they consider him a worthy opponent or not, Natasha can’t tell.

While he’s out, though, she does take the time to break into his apartment (he keeps his key under a brick by the front door, the goober), and bug it.

\--

“Hmm.” The chief editor of _The_ _Age_ scans the articles and (carefully forged) references in his hands. “Which paper did you write for in – where was it?”

“Cicero, Illinois,” says Natasha, hands folded neatly in her lap. “The _Daily Tribune._ ”

The chief editor, a Mr. Bower, grunts again, sharp eyes flicking back and forth from behind his spectacles as he continues to read. Morning light shines pearly through the grimy windows, highlighting his balding head, the carefully arranged pens on his desk. “Well, you seem like a smart girl,” he says. “How about I start you doing the personals, thirty-five cents an hour, and we’ll see what happens from there. How does that sound to you?”

“Perfect.”

Her new desk is in the main office floor with everyone else. Her immediate neighbors are two women, both in their early twenties, one brown-haired and round-faced, and the other with blue eyes and some very strong eyebrows. On the other side of the room, under the windows, is an empty desk that Mr. Bower glances with irritation. “Where’s Rogers?” he says.

“He called to say he’s not feeling well, he’ll be in later today,” says an older woman with iron-gray curls, whom Natasha assumes is the secretary and/or receptionist.

“He better,” grunts Mr. Bower, heading back to his office as Natasha takes her coat off and puts her purse on the desk. “Those cartoons aren’t gonna draw themselves.”

Natasha sits down at the desk; there’s a typewriter and a pile of letters in a metal tray. “Hey,” says the brunette. “You’re working here now?”

“Looks like it,” says Natasha.

The brunette sticks out her hand, very energetically. “Swell to meet ya,” she says. “Charlene Scott, though everyone calls me Charlie. And that’s Paula Huxley.” The other woman, who is typing furiously, looks up briefly to smile at Natasha before returning to whatever she’s writing. “What’s your name?”

“Natalie Roman.” So people actually talk like that. And use words like _swell._

“Where ya from?”

“Illinois.”

“Illinois? I got a cousin who lives in Chicago,” says Charlie. Paula raises her eyebrows, but does not stop typing. “What’d you come out East for?”

Natasha shrugs. “Wanted some adventure, I suppose.”

Charlie laughs delightedly, the light shimmering on her teeth and golden-brown hair. “Well, then you’ve come to the right place,” she says. “Plenty of adventure in the City.” And with that Charlie launches into a description of the various entertainments available to young unmarried women in New York, culminating in a very emphatic invitation that Natasha go out with her and Paula to various bars that night to celebrate her arrival in New York City, the constant flow of her voice interrupted only by the regular dings of Paula’s typewriter. Apparently the other occupants of the office are used to this, because no one reprimands Charlie for disturbing the working environment.

“I’d love to, but I don’t have any money,” says Natasha when she can finally get a word in, but Charlie waves that excuse away.

“One, a girl like you can find a guy to buy ya a drink, no problem,” says Charlie. “Two, who cares about money? You just got a job!”

“You’ve got swell timing, by the way,” says Paula, having come to the end of her article. She tears the papers out of the typewriter, knocks them against the desk to line them up. “This position only opened up a week ago.”

One coincidence like this was eyebrow-raising; two brings all of Natasha’s senses to razor-sharp alert. “Really?”

“Yeah,” says Charlie, now chewing on the eraser of her pencil. It’s been fifteen minutes now and Natasha has yet to see her do any work. “It was Bette Carey who used to work here, only her mom got real sick and she had to go back to Vermont to take care of her.”

“Gosh,” murmurs Natasha. “That’s rough.”

“I know, right?” Staring out the window, Charlie continues to pensively mangle her eraser. Paula sticks fresh sheets of paper into her typewriter and starts typing anew. “I should write to her or somethin’… But hey!” She turns back to Natasha, animated again. “You’re comin’ out with us tonight, yeah?”

Eventually Natasha has to plead exhaustion, saying she only got to New York a couple days ago and she’s still pretty tired from the trip. “I got it, I got it,” says Charlie, winking at her. “But hey, when you’re feelin’ better, you let us know and we’ll hit up the town, yeah? Maybe find you a New York beau –”

“Charlie,” murmurs Paula.

“What?” she says, smirking, and bats her eyelashes at Paula, who shakes her head in amused dismay. “Say, you’re not taken, are ya?”

Natasha’s smile is one part affection and two parts irony. “I got a boy back home, actually.” Even if it weren’t true, it’s still a convenient lie. She doesn’t want to risk some poor 1940’s man getting attached to her and having his heart broken.

Charlie looks briefly disappointed before rallying, and Natasha has no doubt she’s about ask for a detailed description of Clint when Mr. Bower sticks his head out of his office to say, “Ms. Scott, I’m paying you to write, not socialize.”

“Sorry, boss,” says Charlie, unrepentant. And although she puts paper in her typewriter and pulls out whatever articles she’s supposed to be copying, it is another fifteen minutes before she even begins to work.

\--

Natasha comes back to the apartment building at much the same time as Steve, as they both left the office when it closed; she has to be careful he doesn’t notice her. At first they’d thought she was pushing it when she talked with 2018 Steve about working at the same paper he was, but according to him he wasn’t in that often during the war, and besides, he’d kind of kept to himself at work anyway. Certainly there’d been no kind of office-wide introductions, as Mr. Brewer seemed wholly unconcerned with etiquette. All the same, she’s glad she sits with her back to him, since it cuts down on the chance of awkward interactions.

And at least this way she’s around in case the operative tries to murder him at work.

But today, when Natasha gets back to the apartment building, she does not go to her own flat but instead heads over to the landlady’s office and knocks on the already-ajar door.

“Come in,” grunts the landlady, Mrs. Moreno. Natasha walks in to see her seated at her desk, preparing to wage war against a truly impressive sandwich. “Oh, you’re the new tenant, Ms. –“

“Roman,” says Natasha smoothly.

“Yeah.” Mrs. Moreno takes a bite of the sandwich, spilling lettuce everywhere. “Whaddaya want?”

“I was wondering if you could tell me about the previous tenants of my apartment?”

“Tenant,” corrects Mrs. Moreno, swallowing. “Just the one man, had a lot of his sailor friends over all the time. Why?” She looks up at Natasha suspiciously. “He do something to the place?”

“Oh, no,” Natasha hastens to reassure her. “I was just curious.”

“Yeah, he got drafted,” she says, returning to her sandwich. “Tends to happen.”

Mrs. Moreno continues making her way through the sandwich at an impressive pace, and Natasha, realizing the conversation’s over, leaves the office, not reassured at all. People get sick all the time, and young men across the nation are being drafted, but the fact that it should happen in two situations so advantageous to her doesn’t feel right at all.

\--

She first sees Bucky on her fourth day in 1943, and the changes in him are just as unsettling as those in Steve, but for different reasons. His hair is short and neat, he looks young, he looks clean, he looks… _healthy_ , in a way she’s never seen him before. It kind of makes her want to find Armin Zola and acquaint his insides with a lot of sharp metal things.

But that, she supposes, would interfere too greatly with the space-time continuum or whatever it is.

\--

The bar is crowded, dim, noisy, enough so that even Natasha, an attractive unaccompanied woman, can blend in unnoticed. Steve and Bucky are seated at the bar, only a table away from her corner, and even among the din of conversation it’s not hard to listen in on them, though to be fair she’s had training.

“Again?” says Bucky. “Steve…”

“What?” God, the stubborn set of his jaw is exactly the same. “I gotta do something –”

“Yeah, like… collect scrap metal, or something.”

“That’s not enough.”

Sighing, Bucky looks away and takes a drink. “I just don’t see why you’re so hell-bent on getting yourself killed.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do.”

“Sure seems like it,” says Bucky, bitter.

There’s an awkward silence. Natasha pushes her glass back and forth on the table, avoids making eye contact with any of the other bar patrons. “Guess I should be getting home,” says Steve eventually.

“Do you know how many guys,” Bucky hisses, low enough that Natasha nearly loses thread of the conversation, “would give anything to be in your shoes? Including me? I could be shipped out any time now, Mom and Pop and Becky are all worried sick waiting for the day it happens, and here you are –” Bucky stops, apparently too frustrated for words.

“I got no right to be sitting here safe while other men are dying,” snaps Steve. “I should be fighting, same as them.”

“No, you shouldn’t –”

“Why not?”

Bucky gives Steve a look that clearly suggests he already knows the answer; glowering back, Steve stands up. “I’m going home,” he says. “See ya, Buck.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, into his glass.

Natasha gives Steve a couple minutes’ head start, and then leaves the bar.

\--

“Ms. Roman,” says Mr. Bower, the second she steps into the office. He’s in his shirt sleeves, bending over a desk spread with sheets of copy. “How do you feel about doing work in the field?”

“Uh, fine, sir,” she says, dropping her purse on her desk. “Am I being promoted?”

“No, but Watson’s out sick and I need someone heading over to the Met Opera House to cover the opening night of the Copeland ballet.”

And here Natasha’d been wondering what she was going to do, since Steve didn’t work Mondays and she couldn’t very well watch out for him while at _The_ _Age_ ’s office. Yet another fortuitous coincidence, she thinks, and her stomach twists uneasily.

“Sure thing,” she says, gathering up her affects. “What do you need?”

\--

“And then I told him,” says Charlie, “that that wasn’t any way to talk to a _lady_ , and I punched him in the face. Broke his nose, there was blood everywhere…”

“Sounds thrilling,” murmurs Natasha.

“Oh, it was.” Their heels go _tap-tap-tap_ as they move at a brisk clip down the sidewalk, on their way back to the office from lunch. “My mom didn’t let me go to school for a week, and when I got back everyone was still talkin’ about it. I was the coolest person in the third grade.”

You’d have liked Steve, thinks Natasha idly. In the end I suppose it’s a good thing you two never met, though.

“So anyway,” continues Charlie, “I thought I was never gonna speak to him again, until last month – what the hell’s goin’ on here?”

It’s a traffic jam, with cars clogging the street and all honking angrily at each other. “What’s holdin’ everything up?” says Charlie, craning her neck to try and get a look. “Was there an accident or something?”

Natasha rises on tiptoe to see over the cars and heads of people, but the congestion’s too bad for her to get a good look. “Hey,” says Charlie, grabbing the arm of the nearest onlooker. “What happened?”

“I dunno,” he says, also stretching his neck to see. “I only just got here – hey.” He’s turned to look at them, and when his eyes fall on Natasha his face lights up like he’s seen an angel fall from heaven.

Oh, _great_.

“Is there, uh, anything I can do for you ladies?” he says.

“No,” says Natasha, grabbing Charlie’s arm and marching them down the street.

“Wait,” she protests, “I wanna see what was going on –”

“It was an accident, someone got hit,” Natasha lies.

“Well then, shouldn’t we stay and report on it? We work for a newspaper –”

“I don’t like blood, it makes me faint.”

“Oh, well…” Charlie looks over their shoulder. “Gee, that guy…”

Natasha sighs. Here comes the speech about how she should have been polite, listened to him –

“What was up with him, huh? The way he looked at you, it was like he thought you were gonna get married next Sunday. What an idiot…”

Smiling to herself, Natasha links her arm through Charlie’s and they walk on.

\--

She’s returning from a grocery run and reaches her apartment door just as Bucky’s stepping out of Steve’s place. Shit, thinks Natasha, ducking her head as she pretends to fish in her purse for her keys. Don’t notice me, keep walking –

“Hey,” says Bucky. “Excuse me?”

“Yes?” she says, turning around with a tight smile.

He’s frowning at her, eyes blue-gray and fierce. “You were at the same bar as Steve and me, the other night –”

“Was I? I don’t recall –”

“I saw you leave right after he did.”

She can’t deny it – she can tell from his body language – so she throws up a shield. “You noticed.”

“Yeah, I did.” He does not look at all abashed, like she’d hoped. Instead, his frown deepens, and something in his jaw hardens. “I kinda learned to keep an eye out for him, you know?”

Natasha doesn’t have a ready response for that, and Bucky takes his chance, stepping forward. “Look,” he says, “I don’t know what your plan is, followin’ Steve around like that –”

Shit, he’s on to me, she thinks, and then, But he can’t be, he wouldn’t even know –

“– but it’s not gonna work. There’s been girls before who think it’s funny to pay attention to him just to yank the rug out from under his feet, and I’m telling you right now you’re not trying the same stunt with him.”

Completely blindsided, Natasha can only stare up at Bucky. She can see elements of the Winter Soldier in his expression – the determination, the anger, the intense focus. But the loyalty is all Bucky.

Also… ugh, _Steve._

“Got it,” she says. “Really.”

“Good.” The tension in Bucky’s shoulders eases. “Because I don’t care if you are a lady, if you try and mess with Steve –”

“I got it, don’t worry,” she says, forcing a laugh. “Won’t go near him.” She’s tempted to say that was never her intention, but that might lead to awkward questions about what her intentions actually are. “Is that all?”

“Yeah.” Bucky draws back, and now he does look slightly disconcerted, as if he hadn’t meant to be quite that threatening. “Yeah, that’s all. You have a nice night, ma’am.”

“You too,” murmurs Natasha; he’s already turned and started walking away. It’s odd, being threatened by someone she knows very well and who doesn’t know her at all; it sends uncomfortable shivers down her spine and reminds her vaguely of the Red Room. But he means well, she reminds herself. He just thinks he’s doing the right thing.

“You got one hell of a guy there, Rogers,” she says under breath, and finally unlocks her door and step inside.

When Mrs. Moreno said the apartment was furnished, it was just this side of a lie. There’s a wire-frame bedstead with a mattress (suspiciously stained in one corner) and a floor lamp and a side table, and that’s it. Natasha had to go buy sheets and a pillow, as well as a small icebox and a radio. The icebox holds her small stash of groceries. What the radio contains is far more important.

Opening up the back, Natasha pulls out the receiver for the bugs she planted in Steve’s room, turns it on, fits the earpiece into her ear. Static begins to crackle through the tiny speaker, and then music, soft, classical. Steve’s listening to Brahms.

Pulling out folded newspapers from her purse (all the major papers, she wants a thorough understanding of what’s going on), she leans back on her only slightly questionable pillows, shakes out the _New York Times,_ and begins to read.

She can’t go around asking questions about the previous tenant of her apartment, or Bette whose job she took, or Watson who’s continued illness means she has ample chances to be out of the office when Steve’s not in working, not without interfering too much. All she can do is comb the newspapers, the personals, obituaries, anything, looking for some tiny shred of evidence that might prove these aren’t just accidents.

It’s painstaking and frustrating, and by midnight her vision is blurring, a dull pain developing in her left temple. You’re not going to find anything here, Natasha tells herself, sighing and tossing aside _The Daily Star._ You’ll have to try something else.

Theoretically, she could always accept them as fortuitous circumstances and move on. But Natasha’s learned quite a lot, both as an assassin and a superhero, and besides, she’s seen her scifi. There’s no such thing as a coincidence, especially when time travel is involved.


	4. Chapter 4

> Because of a crisis point, even the tiniest action can assume importance all out of proportion to its size. Consequences multiply and cascade, and anything - a missed telephone call, a match struck during a blackout, a dropped piece of paper, a single moment - can have empire-tottering effects.
> 
> \- _To Say Nothing of the Dog,_ Connie Willis

 

The day the HYDRA agent is scheduled to come through is warm and muggy, with a generous serving of haze. Natasha shadows Steve to work, a sharp eye on any passing strangers, that man with a fedora tipped over his eyes, the woman with a hand clutching her purse. But when they arrive at the office, there’s a problem; Watson’s convenient absence is no longer so convenient, as Mr. Bower wants Natasha out and gathering more stories.

Her options are disagree with him and risk drawing Steve’s attention to herself, or spend the day out of the office without keeping an eye on Steve. She opts for the latter; it’s highly unlikely the HYDRA operative will know where to find Steve on their first day in 1943, and besides, they’re probably not going to assassinate him in the middle of a fully staffed office. Not yet, at least.

But she can’t work with these constraints for the rest of the two weeks, so when she comes in the next day she goes straight to Mr. Bower’s office and knocks on his door.

“Yeah,” he says, which she understands to mean “Come in.” He’s reading through an article when she enters, slowly and carefully making corrections, and only briefly glances up. “What is it?”

“Mr. Bower,” says Natasha. “I’m handing in my notice.”

Frowning, he puts down his pen and looks up at her. “That’s a little early, isn’t it?” he says. “Is there something wrong with the office?”

“No, not at all,” she says. “It’s just… being here, where there’s so much happening about the War… it made me realize that there’s so much more I could be doing. I’m joining the AWVS[1].”

“Ah.” Mr. Bower spins his pen between his fingers. “Understandable. We’ve all got to do what we can, after all…” There’s a framed photograph on his desk, a young man smiling in black and white with the folds of his uniform crisp and new. “When are you leaving?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t got an assignment yet. But I thought I’d wrap everything I’m working on here up first, so that I’m free to go when they need me.”

“Understandable,” says Mr. Bower. “Well, good luck to you.”

“Thanks.”

\--

Charlie is very sad to see Natasha leave _The Age._

“I mean, I guess I see why,” she says glumly. “Everyone’s got to do their part during the War, and so on. But you’ve only been here a week!"

“I know.”

“And you never even let us take you out!” Charlie levels a glare at Natasha, forestalling her attempt to speak. “And don’t say ‘we’ll do it when you get back,’ because we both know that’s not going to happen.”

“Charlie!” says Paula, shocked.

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Charlie flushes, abashed. “I just meant what are the odds that once the war’s over she’s going to come back to a dingy little rag like ours –”

“Dingy little _paper_ , if you please, Ms. Scott,” calls Mr. Bower from across the office. “We have not descended to articles on curling irons and ‘Five Ways to Bake a Cake on Rations.’ Not yet, at any rate.”

Charlie rolls her eyes at Mr. Bower, giving Natasha the chance to collect herself; Charlie’s prediction had hit a little too close to the truth. “All right, then, I won’t promise,” says Natasha. “I have no idea if I’ll ever come back to New York City again.”

“Better,” says Charlie, glowering. “You sure you don’t have time before you go?”

Natasha feigns regret. “I’m afraid not.”

“Fine.”

\--

The next day Natasha goes to the leasing office of the building and asks the proprieter, a Mr. Watts, about any offices she might occupy for a couple of weeks or so. “I’m a novelist,” she says. “I need a quiet space where I can edit my work.”

“Well, you’re in luck then, honey, aren’t you,” he says, winking. “Got a nice little corner office right… here. Room 214. And I tell you what, discounted rate, just for you – thirty dollars a week.”

It’s not discounted, it’s exorbitant, but that’s not what worries her. The empty office is just around the corner from _The Age_ ’s office, close enough to keep an eye on things but far enough to minimize the amount of awkward encounters. “Has it been open long?” she asks, dreading the answer.

Mr. Watts shakes his head. “Only been vacated a couple days ago,” he says. “Previous renter just upped and left, some kind of family emergency. Lucky for you though, eh?”

That’s one way of putting it _,_ she thinks, worry gnawing at her stomach.

“What’ll it be, sweetheart? You gonna take the place?”

“Yes,” she says, distant, pulling her wallet out of her purse. “I’ll take it.”

\--

It’s maddening.

Her every instinct is screaming at her not to ignore these coincidences, that they’re anything but, that in order to be safe she needs to immediately investigate. But that interferes with the parameters of the mission in so many ways; not only would it mean leaving Steve undefended but she would be interacting with far too many residents of 1943, potentially causing all sorts of ripple effects into the future.

Except even if you do, she tells herself, it won’t matter, since clearly everything turned out all right in the end.

Unless maybe things only turn out all right because I _don’t_ go off investigating.

Damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t. Natasha sighs, rubbing her forehead in the yellow light of her apartment lamp. What was it Thor had said – _Often the most damage is done when one takes specific steps to either avoid or ensure a vision happens._

She’s going to have to play defensive on this one, even though it doesn’t sit right. Natasha can’t afford to leave Steve unguarded, no matter what. If there’s trouble, it’s going to have to come to her.

Steve coughs, the sound sharp in Natasha’s ear. With a grimace she touches a finger to the earpiece, sliding down the volume. He was coughing last night too, although it sounded manageable. Crossing her legs, Natasha settles into a comfortable position (or the best approximation of one she can find on this horrible bed) and starts reading _The Times._

Steve coughs again, breaking her concentration. With a sigh, Natasha tries to tune it out and keep reading.

But he keeps coughing, and coughing, and coughing, sounding more and more phlegmy. Soon it’s a full-fledged fit, each cough deep and _painful,_ and what’s even worse is the horrid rattling wheezes he makes in between bouts, like he can’t get enough air. Natasha claws out the earpiece and stares at it in her hand, but Steve’s coughing is still hoarsely audible through the apartment walls. She’d known he was constantly ill, but _Jesus…_

He’ll be fine, she reminds herself. He’s meeting Erskine in eleven days and pretty soon after that he’ll never be sick again.

But it feels like cold comfort as she sits here listening to him nearly cough a lung up. You can’t go in and help him, she thinks. Besides, what would she even do? She’s never been much of a nurse; usually her method of healing is stop the bleeding, splint anything broken, shoot the patient up with either a sedative or adrenaline (depending on what the situation requires), and hope for the best. She doesn’t really do that whole bedside-nurture-thing…

The coughs get weaker and weaker and eventually dies away. Natasha hopes that it means Steve’s asleep, and not passed out or something. He’ll be fine, she thinks again. You know that.

But it doesn’t make her feel any less confident as she tries to fall asleep herself.

\--

The only reason Natasha’s okay keeping a little more distance when Steve’s around Bucky is because Bucky’s the only person in New York more invested in keeping Steve safe than her. He doesn’t have the training to stop an assassin (yet), but at least he’ll slow them down enough for Natasha to get there and finish the job.

From across the street, she watches them go into a deli and buy sandwiches. Or rather, Bucky tries to buy them both sandwiches, something that Steve vehemently objects to, judging by the set of his shoulders. Eventually though, sandwiches are acquired, and Bucky and Steve start off down the street, their animated conversation not in the least deterred by mouths full of food.

Well, it’s nice to see the little things haven’t changed.

\--

It’s a good thing Natasha’s a light sleeper, because one day Steve wakes up at the crack of dawn, far earlier than normal, and promptly leaves his apartment, and if she didn’t have her earpiece on she’d never have known.

Steve walks down the street, the streets gray-brown and chill in the predawn light, before New York has really had a chance to wake itself. A newspaper, blown along by a gust of hot air from the subways below, wraps itself around Natasha’s legs. She’s about to kick it free when a headline catches her eye and she stoops, picking it up.

It’s not front-page news; it’s a little article tucked away on page A5, _LOCALS REPORT MYSTERIOUS LIGHT IN NEARBY DEPOSITORY_. Natasha frowns, trying to read it and keep up with Steve at the same time. It’s an abandoned schoolbook depository in Brooklyn, and last night (well, a few nights ago by the paper's date) residents reported seeing a “strange, vivid blue light” and hearing “electrical sounds.”

Natasha doesn’t trip over an unseen obstacle, but her hands do shake the tiniest bit as she folds the paper (keeping the creases nice and sharp) and tucks it into her pocket. She’s not afraid of the HYDRA agent coming through; that’s not it at all. She’s afraid because this is a whole other level beyond fortuitous vacancies in apartments, and she doesn’t believe for one second that a newspaper with the information she needs just so happened to drift over to her.

She’s still following Steve at an inconspicuous distance, but only half her mind is on him. There’s no question in her mind now that these “coincidences” are being orchestrated, but by whom? Natasha’s read a book series about time travel wherein the coincidences where manufactured by the continuum itself, as a way of correcting for changes made by time travelers and keeping space-time safe or whatever it was trying to do. But Natasha can’t believe that’s what’s going on here; it’s only a step more plausible than the idea of fate or a just universe. Which means there’s someone or something _actively changing events._

Natasha shivers, and very nearly misses Steve turning the corner. Oh, he’s heading to the train station. Great.

“Return ticket to Greenwich, please,” Steve asks the dozing cashier in the booth. Greenwich, Natasha thinks, having acquired her own ticket and finding a spot to wait on the platform that’s just out of Steve’s range of sight (“I guess it’s a good thing I was nearsighted,” he’d said wryly in 2018. “I won’t be able to pick out your face unless you’re two feet in front of me.”) Greenwich is in Connecticut, although it’s really not very far from Brooklyn at all. What’s in Greenwich?

An army recruitment center is what’s there, it transpires.

Natasha can’t very well go in with Steve, but she hangs around the front desk for a while, asking all sorts of questions about the Women’s Voluntary Services, is it much of a commitment, will she be sent to Europe, etc. When she’s exhausted her questions and the receptionist’s patience, she goes outside to get a coffee from a nearby café and wait for Steve to emerge after his inevitable rejection.

Someone’s orchestrating events to make things easier for her. That much is obvious; the question is who?

Clearly it’s someone on her and Steve’s side, and with an intimate knowledge of her actions in 1943, which makes it highly probable that it’s someone she already knows, who’s familiar with this project. _Maybe it’s me_ , Natasha thinks wryly. But that would require being in two places at the same time, and she highly doubts that’s possible. So that rules out Steve from the future, as well. Possibly Tony, although somehow it doesn’t seem like his style. It requires too much inconspicuousness.

Clint, she thinks softly, hands wrapped around the coffee cup for its warmth. Clint, is this you? It could be – he has the skills, the abilities, and once she returns and tells him he’ll have the knowledge of what to do as well. The idea that even here, seventy-five years in the past, Clint is still her partner, still working with her, is immensely comforting, and Natasha wants very badly to believe. But she knows better than that.

Hope’s dangerous, she thinks, watching Steve coming out of the recruitment office with his hands shoved in his pockets and a dejected expression on his face. It just makes the fall that much harder.

\--

Several days pass without incident. Natasha, in the back of St. Charles, Steve’s bowed head and hunched shoulders several pews in front of her, turns to a clean page in her reporter’s notebook and starts listing the names of anyone, either in 2018 or the foreseeable future, who might be responsible for going back in time and aiding her. Some, like the Avengers and SHIELD team members, are easy. But considering the future opens it up to an almost infinite amount of possibilities. It could be her hypothetical child, or grandchild, or even great-great-great-great-grandchild, and eventually Natasha is forced to accept that until she has more information, she simply has no way of knowing.

The thing is, though, if they’re friendly – and she assumes they are – why haven’t they revealed themselves to her yet? Why trust in a gust of wind and a newspaper to bring her information when they could speak directly to her? Why bother hiding?

She taps her pen on the pad thoughtfully, ignoring the disapproving glare of the old woman next to her. Up at the front of the church, the priest is intoning over a silver chalice. That’s the nice thing about a Catholic service; it’s all in Latin, so it’s easy for her to tune it out. The only time she’s ever really spent in churches is when she’s had a mark who's in one, but Steve seems to like it, both in 2018 and 1943. She doesn’t see the appeal herself, but hey, she’s not about to knock down what makes other people feel better. Reassurance is hard enough to come by as it is.

The service concludes with a flair of organ pipes. Natasha remains kneeling, watching Steve out of the corner of her eye as he crosses himself and starts heading back down the aisle. With the doors at the back of the church open, light drifts in to gild the stone floor, shadows dark umber against it. The old woman next to Natasha is slowly getting to her feet, with much cane-clutching and muffled grunting. Natasha tries not to look smug as she rises gracefully and sweeps out of the pew, but hey, the old lady was giving her dirty looks. She deserves it.

Out on the street, it’s a warm summer’s day, crowds of people out in their Sunday best. The sun shines bronze-gold on Steve’s hair, glows bright on the cotton print of women’s dresses, flashes off metal on a rooftop…

Natasha breaks into a sprint, tackles Steve to the ground just as shots ring out around them.

People scream and run, ducking for cover. Steve’s wheezing, trying to get his wind back, and Natasha grabs him under the armpits and starts to pull him up just as bullets strike the paving at their feet.

“Jesus!” Steve scrambles backwards, but not fast enough, the sniper’s reloading – Natasha almost physically drags him into the nearest alley, flattening them against the brick wall. The shots have stopped, and she can’t see the sniper from the sliver of city street visible, so it seems like they’re temporarily out of range. Heart thudding from the adrenaline, she tips her head back against the wall – and then the full impact of what’s happened hits her.

“Jesus Christ,” says Steve again. He’s _looking_ at her, they’re interacting, this wasn’t supposed to happen – “Well, thanks.” He holds out his hand for her to shake. “My name’s Steve, Steve Rogers. And yours?”

 

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Women%27s_Voluntary_Services

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this post deserves a mention: http://drop-deaddream.tumblr.com/post/118090545986/inv3rtebrate-replied-to-your-post-so-your-post


	5. Chapter 5

> How all occasions do inform against me, and spur my dull revenge!
> 
> \- _Hamlet,_ IV.4.31-32

 

Natasha takes his hand automatically. “Natalie Roman.”

“Thanks again, Miss Roman,” says Steve, starting to get up and move around her. “What the heck was that –”

“Stay back,” says Natasha sharply, grabbing his arm and pulling him back into cover.

But Steve frowns at her and squares his shoulders. “Someone could be hurt out there –”

“Everyone’s fine,” says Natasha tightly. “But if you go out there you won’t be.” As if to emphasize her point, two more shots hit the ground near them, and she curses and drags Steve farther into the alley. She can see he’s not getting it, so she adds, “The sniper’s shooting at _you._ ”

Confusion and fear sink into his expression. “But – why? Why me? I’m nobody –”

“No, you’re not.” You’re one of my best friends. You saved the world. You broke one of the world’s deadliest secret agents out of mind control through the power of true love.“You’re not nobody.”

“How do you –”

“We don’t have time for this.” The sniper’s probably repositioning, they could have a clear line to them any second. “We’ve got to get somewhere safe.”

“This alley’s a dead end,” says Steve, with the tone of someone pointing out the obvious. Great, he was sarcastic even in 1943.

“I see that,” says Natasha. She also sees a fire escape. Taking a running start, she jumps and grabs onto the lowest rung of the ladder, pulling it down with a creaking of metal. “Climb up,” she tells Steve, and he obeys. Her instinct is to keep running up, but… she’s got to stick with Steve, and after a couple flights he’s red-faced and wheezing, unable to go much faster than a walk. All right, time for plan B.

She crouches by the window on the landing, examining the latch. Thank God for the simplicity of 1940’s technology, she thinks, and pulls out a knife from her purse. Steve comes up beside her, panting, as she slides her knife through the latch, unlocking it. “You’re breaking in?” he puffs.

“You got a better idea?”

“No.” He doesn’t sound angry, though.

“Come on.” Natasha pushes the window open slowly, waiting for noise from within, but the apartment seems empty – maybe the inhabitants are out to church. “Get inside.”

She climbs in, Steve following – the apartment looks like a little old lady lives there, crowded and dingy with lots of faded florals and the overwhelming smell of cats. “You’re not allergic or anything, are you?” she asks Steve, scanning the apartment for movement.

“Nope,” says Steve. “Guess someone decided I had enough problems breathing as it is.”

“Good,” says Natasha absently, weighing her options. They could stay in here and wait the sniper out, but risk getting caught by the inhabitant, or leave and try and lose the sniper in the tangle of Brooklyn. She opts for the second. “All right, let’s go.”

Steve goes with her as she crosses the apartment and exits, but stops after they close the door. “You’re just going to leave it unlocked?”

They don’t have time, they don’t have _time_ – “How am I supposed to lock it? Besides, there’s nothing in there worth stealing –”

“That’s not the point.”

“The point is keeping you alive and getting out of here as fast as possible.” She starts hurrying down the hallway, towards the stairs – with any luck there’s a back door that exits out onto an alley.

“Wait,” says Steve. Natasha turns to see he’s stopped dead in the hallway. “Before we go a step farther I want to know what’s going on.”

She knows from experience that there is no arguing with him when he’s like this. “Fine,” she says. “But can we at least find somewhere to talk about it that isn’t an open hallway?”

Steve deliberates. “Fine.”

“Perfect.”

At the end of the hallway is a staircase; Natasha opens the door slowly, cautious of anyone lying in wait. But everything seems clear. “All right,” she says, shutting the door behind Steve and sitting down on the stairs. “What do you want to know?”

Steve’s got his feet planted, hands shoved in his pockets. “First of all, who are you?”

“Natalie Roman.”

“I already know your name. I want to know who you _are._ ”

Natasha sighs, wondering if it’s worth it to try and outright lie her way out of this. Probably not. Steve’s good at seeing through lies. Then again, there’s that delicate line to walk of how much he’ll actually believe, and if she’ll accidentally destroy the future by telling him things he shouldn’t know… “I’m a special agent,” she says. “I’ve been sent here to protect you.”

“Why me?” says Steve. “And protect me from what?”

She starts with the easiest answer first. “There’s people trying to kill you.”

“Yeah, I kinda figured that part out on my own. Why?”

He’ll never believe her if she tells the truth – the whole truth, anyway. “Soon in the future you’re going to become very, very important.”

Sure enough, he doesn’t believe her. His eyes narrow. “What does that mean? How do you know?”

“Trust me,” she says. “I know.”

Steve’s pacing in frustration, hands raking through his hair until it’s all ruffled. He’s handling this remarkably well, Natasha thinks – and then she notices how pale he is and how his hands are shaking like leaves. “Rogers,” she says, patting the step beside her. “Sit down before you pass out.”

He looks annoyed but complies, which means the shock must be hitting him pretty bad. “Sorry,” he says. “Guess I’m just not used to getting shot at.”

You will be soon enough, thinks Natasha, and something in her heart winces.

“Important _how_?” says Steve.

They’re treading on very dangerous ground here; she can’t risk saying something that makes him change his mind about his course of action. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?” he demands.

“It’s a matter of national security.” It is, in a way…

Steve frowns at her. “You’re from the government?”

Sure. “Yes.”

“Does this have to do with the War?”

You know what, maybe it’s easier playing twenty questions and letting him come to his own conclusions. “Yes.”

“Oh.” He sighs and scrubs his face in his hands. “And why can’t I know? I’m the one getting shot at!”

“Because it involves the security of others as well as yourself,” says Natasha smoothly.

Steve’s jaw is working back and forth; he’s clearly searching for a new line of attack. “So what, I’m just supposed to go with you now?”

“You can if you want,” says Natasha, shrugging. “Unless you prefer being target practice.”

Steve’s scowl isn’t nearly as impressive when not backed up by two hundred pounds of muscle and America’s Mightiest Jawline, but hey, he tries. “Why should I believe you?”

Natasha looks him right in the eyes, leans forward. “Because I’m here to help you,” she says, keeping her voice soft, steady, earnest. “I saved your life once, and I’ll do it again.”

Usually that tone of voice and body language does the trick, and sure enough it works like a charm on Steve – she can see his shoulders relaxing, and although his frown doesn’t smooth out he looks significantly less belligerent. “Fine,” he says. “Though I’m still not sure why I should trust you.”

“Look, forget everything I said,” says Natasha. “Stick to what you know. There’s someone shooting at you, and I just saved you from them. Is that something you can trust?”

Steve gives her a long, measured look. “Yes,” he says at last.

“Good,” says Natasha, standing up and holding a hand out to him. “Now let’s go.”

\--

Fortunately, there is a back door, and Natasha leads Steve out and through the alley. Once they’re out on the street, though, that raises the troubling question of where to go next. If HYDRA knows Steve’s church, then she’s sure they know his apartment too, which rules out hers as well, and it’s quite possible they know Bucky’s too –

Oh God. Bucky. What if _he’s_ the operative?

He can’t be, Natasha tells herself, leading Steve into the first seedy diner they come across. He can’t exist in two places at once. Besides, if it was him that would have been in the report. And Bucky was too valuable an asset to HYDRA to risk on this kind of mission, anyway.

“You okay?” says Steve, across the greasy table from her. “You look kind of worried.”

“I’m fine,” she says with a quick smile. It’s not until Steve doesn’t respond, just stares out the window, that she realizes she’d been expecting a soft “ _Nat,_ ” and blue eyes looking at her with a promise that she can say what’s wrong and no one will criticize or think less of her. “What we need to figure out is a safe location for you to stay.”

“Oh.” Steve frowns again. “So my apartment isn’t good?”

“I’m afraid not,” says Natasha. “They know your church, I’m sure they know where you live too.”

Steve’s frown deepens. “I’ve got a friend, I could stay at his place –”

“Is this friend Mr. Barnes?”

He blinks, surprised. “Yeah.”

“I’m afraid that’s no good, either. He’s a known associate, we can’t chance that they haven’t marked him too.”

Wrong thing to say – Steve pales and he starts up. “Wait, you mean Buck’s in danger too? I gotta warn him –”

“No – no, he’s fine –” says Natasha, grabbing Steve’s sleeve before he can leave. “The only way he’ll be in danger is if he’s around you.”

Steve slides back into his seat, looking distinctly troubled. “I still don’t understand why they’re coming after me,” he says. “Even if I’m going to do something important later, why attack me now?”

“To prevent you from doing that,” says Natasha. This shouldn’t be happening, she keeps thinking. Steve doesn’t remember me. We shouldn’t be having this conversation. And then, what if we did? What if he knew this when Erskine picked him? What if he had an idea of what was happening when he went into Project Rebirth…

“I’m guessing that means I can’t see him,” says Steve.

“I’m afraid not.” They’re not together yet, Natasha reminds herself to keep from sounding too sympathetic. “Or any other close acquaintances.”

“Can I give him a call and explain, at least? He’s not exactly going to be happy when he finds out I’ve disappeared.”

The last thing they need is an angry Bucky on their trail. “Fine.”

Steve gives her a long, measured look. “I notice you didn’t mention my family.”

“No,” says Natasha, returning his gaze.

Neither one says anything, but the unspoken assumption – that she knows about his parents and that they’re deceased – hangs over the table. It’s only broken when a middle-aged woman in an apron comes over. “You guys havin’ anything?”

They won’t be able to stay unless they order. “Two coffees,” says Natasha, and the server nods and walks away.

“Anywhere else that comes to mind?” Natasha asks.

Steve deliberates, shakes his head. “I got nothing,” he says. “Unless you have somewhere?”

“Not at the moment.” In hindsight that strikes her as something that should have been set up, although it’s hard to arrange that sort of thing from the next century. Suddenly she thinks of her mysterious benefactor, and wonders if there’s an apartment somewhere in Brooklyn waiting for them.

“Really,” says Steve. “The government sends an agent to protect me, but they can’t set up a safe house or something?”

“We hadn’t anticipated it would be needed just yet,” says Natasha. “There should be one ready in a couple of days.” She’ll figure something out by then.

“And until then?”

And until then… “Well, it’s not like they don’t have hotels in Brooklyn, is it?”

\--

They pretend to be newlyweds for the benefit of the desk clerk, and Natasha has sudden flashbacks to 2014 and Washington D.C., kissing Steve on an escalator while Rumlow hunts them down. Funny, how things come round in circles.

“Are you sure this isn’t embarrassing for you?” she teases once they’re in the room, and then wonders if she went too far. The hotel room itself is… well, she’s stayed in worse. Barely.

But Steve just raises an eyebrow at her, in an exasperated expression she knows all too well. “I’ve got a mysterious assassin trying to kill me, I’d say I have more important things to worry about.”

“Good,” says Natasha.

“What about you?” he counters. “Aren’t dames like you supposed to swoon or something if they find themselves alone in a room with a strange man?”

Natasha gives him a blank, tight smile. “I wouldn’t know.”

Steve shoots her a look and starts pacing. “Can I go back to my apartment to get some of my stuff, at least?” he says.

“No, too dangerous,” says Natasha. “What do you need?”

He lists off a handful of things – clothes and toiletries, mostly – and she summons the bellhop, who arrives in the form of a pimply teenage boy. Perfect.

“Hey,” says Natasha, beaming at him. “You wanna do me a favor?”

He gulps and nods. “Sure, miss.”

“My friend and I need some things.” Natasha hands him the notebook page on which she’s written Steve’s list and her own additions. “Can you get them for us?”

His ears are starting to turn red. “Oh, uh, gee, miss, I don’t know…”

Natasha continues smiling at him, as friendly as can be. “I’ll pay you.”

The bellhop’s eyes widen at the wad of cash in her hands. “Uhhh…”

“And that’s just to cover what you’re buying,” she says, and adds another stack of bills. “This you can keep.”

He doesn’t respond for a second, and Natasha’s briefly worried she’s sent him into shock. It’s quite possible he’s never seen that much money in his life. “Please?” she says. “It would mean an awful lot to me.”

“I, uh – yeah, okay,” says the bellhop. “I can’t go right now, but I end work in an hour, can I go then?”

“Sure,” says Natasha, warm and sweet as tea, and presses half the bills in his hand with the list. “The rest is for when you come back, okay?”

“Okay,” he stammers, ears crimson now.

“Thank you so much,” Natasha purrs, and shuts the door.

“How do you know he won’t just take the money and go?” says Steve.

“He won’t.” Natasha folds up the remaining bills, tucks them into the secret pocket in her purse. “He’s not just coming back for the money, he’s coming back for me. Besides, what about those good old American values?”

Steve gives her a funny look – Shit, thinks Natasha. I may have just said something 2018. “Yeah,” says Steve. “Sure.”

Give the guy some credit, Natasha tells herself. He did just survive an assassination attempt, he’s bound to be acting a little off.

“What about food?” asks Steve. “Or are you going to charm the bellhop into getting us that as well?”

Okay, thinks Natasha, smirking to herself. So he’s not that off his game after all.

\--

Later in the afternoon Steve goes down to the lobby to call Bucky, and comes back looking distinctly exasperated. “He doesn’t seem to get that I can take care of myself,” he says, in response to Nat’s questioning look.

That becomes vividly apparent later, when someone knocks on the door sharp and staccato. Natasha, motioning for Steve to go in the bathroom, answers the door with a hand on her gun in her pocket, and finds herself face to face with a livid Bucky.

“Oh,” she says.

His eyes widen angrily as soon as he recognizes her. “You!”

“Yes, me,” says Natasha, deadpan.

“Look, lady,” he says, and for all that he’s not much taller than her he is absolutely bristling with menace, “I don’t know what the hell is going on here –”

“Bucky!” shouts Steve. Natasha can tell the exact moment when Bucky catches sight of him, because his shoulders relax ever so slightly. “She’s all right, okay? She saved my life.”

Bucky’s glare switches from Natasha to Steve and back to Natasha again. “You know she’s been followin’ you around for over a week?” he demands.

Steve shrugs. “No, but that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Look,” says Natasha, “I appreciate you’re upset, but can we not discuss this with the door open?” Bucky stalks in, and Natasha shuts the door. “So.”

“So what the hell is going on?” says Bucky. “Pardon my French.”

Natasha explains succinctly (or rather, reiterates what she told Steve). When she finishes, there’s a long silence, dust motes dancing in the sunlight filtering through cracks in the blinds. “So now what’s the plan?” asks Bucky.

“We wait the assassin out. They’ve got a deadline, after all, and it’s easier to stay safe if we keep our heads down until then.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but that’s stupid,” says Bucky. “So we’re just gonna sit here like sitting ducks and wait for him to show up?”

“We’re playing defensive –”

“And that gives him all the advantage. You should go after him, get him out of the way so we can all continue living our lives in peace without this hanging over our heads.”

“My priority is protecting Steve,” says Natasha heatedly – Steve, who is seated on the bed and frowning down at his hands. “I’m not about to leave him unguarded –”

“You don’t have to,”” says Bucky. “What do I look like to you?”

“Look,” says Steve, “no one needs to guard me –”

“Shut up, Steve,” say Natasha and Bucky in unison.

There is a very awkward silence.

I should not have said that, Natasha realizes. That was so 21st century, that was a whole other level of familiarity with Steve that Natalie Roman doesn’t have at all –

Bucky and Steve are both staring at her.

“I apologize, Mr. Rogers,” says Natasha. “This is a very high-stress assignment for me.”

Steve shrugs. “S’okay.”

Bucky’s still looking at her strange, and Natasha hurries to get back to the conversation. “The point remains,” she says, “that my assignment was to guard Steve, and I can do that much better when I’m actually around him.”

“Well, fine,” says Bucky. “Then I’ll go after this guy. You know where he is?”

“No,” says Natasha automatically, and then remembers, yes, she does, or at least she knows where their time machine dropped them. “Maybe.”

“Great.” Bucky’s looking at her intently. “You wanna tell me where the son of a bitch is so I can bash his head in?”

“No,” repeats Natasha, this time with conviction. She’s pretty sure Bucky stumbling across the 1973 HYDRA agents would qualify as a Level One Disaster. “If anyone does, it’s going to be me.”

“But you’re not going to,” says Steve. “And I agree with Buck, it doesn’t make sense to sit around here and wait for him to come get us.”

Suddenly Natasha can see it, in vivid Technicolor detail: Steve and Bucky deciding to get the operative on their own, Steve and Bucky somehow hunting him down, Steve and Bucky either getting their asses handed to them or somehow warped into the future, she’s not sure which is worse. Except they won’t do that, because they didn’t, she tells herself. But she was never supposed to meet Steve, either. She has no idea what’s supposed to happen now. “Fine,” says Natasha. “Fine. I’ll go after him. You two stay put and try to keep your heads down.” She glares at Steve. “If you can.”

“I dunno, I’ll see what I can do,” he shoots back at her, miffed, and Natasha is oddly relieved. She’d been worried by how quiet he was earlier.

“Well, there’s no time like the present,” says Natasha, grabbing her coat and purse. “I’ll be back by tonight, whether I find them or not.”

“Swell,” says Bucky, not sarcastic at all.

Natasha’s out of the room and down the hallway when she hears a door open and close behind her, and footsteps. “Miss Roman!” calls Bucky.

Now what, she thinks, and turns to face him, expression determinedly pleasant. “Yes?”

“You still haven’t explained why someone’s trying to kill Steve,” he says.

Oh boy. “Because he’s going to become very important to the future of the War,” she says.

“Why?” Bucky’s eyes narrow. “What’s he going to do?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

Natasha forces a smile. “Loose lips sink ships, remember?”

Bucky’s expression is not encouraging. “Does he know what how he'll do that?”

No. “Probably not.”

“Then how come you do?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, either,” says Natasha. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really do have to go.”

“Wait!” says Bucky, just as she’s turning to go. “One more question?”

“What is it?”

“Who won the latest World Series?”

 _What?_ What kind of question is that? “I’m afraid I have more important things to pay attention to than sports, Mr. Barnes,” she says icily. “Now if you want to help your friend, you’ll let me go without further interruption.”

He’s still frowning at her, but there’s something different about it. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Good luck, Miss Roman.”

“Thanks.”

\--

The irony (or perhaps uncomfortable associations) of the HYDRA agents choosing to come through to 1943 in a schoolbook depository[1] are not lost on Natasha. She wonders if this has something to do with her mystery helper as well, but she can’t see how this has any particular advantage for her. Maybe it just helps make the location stick in her mind.

At any rate, the building itself looks properly decrepit, with boarded windows and weeds springing up around the front steps. Natasha’s got the relevant newspaper article tucked in one pocket and her pistol secure in the other. With any luck only one agent’s come through so far, and she can take him out and then ambush the other one when he comes through.

I should be so lucky, Natasha thinks to herself grimly as she picks the lock on a side door and slips in. Things never go to plan, this mission included.

It’s dark inside, a few dusty beams of sunlight fighting their way in through gaps in the boards. There’s also shelving units everywhere, half-full of dirty cardboard boxes. Natasha flips one open, sees _Mathematics: The Story of Numbers, Symbols, and Space_ staring up at her, primary colors woefully faded and stained. I wonder why they left all this here, she thinks. There’s a lot of money going to waste.

Government inefficiency at work, she supposes.

Wiping the dust off her fingers on her coat, she keeps a loose grip on her gun and skirts cautiously around a shelf. As far as she can tell, the first floor seems entirely empty. She’s not even sure what’s here for her to find, come to think of it – if HYDRA’s time machine functions anything like Tony’s, then it won’t leave a visible portal in the time it’s sending people to. Hopefully the operatives set up their base here, although there’s nothing to say they didn’t go out and get a hotel room or something, just like Natasha did. Then again, camping out in abandoned buildings is a little more HYDRA’s style.

Second floor is more shelves and dusty boxes, and a thorough examination reveals nothing. Here’s hoping there’s something, thinks Natasha grimly, heading to the third and final floor.

She climbs the stairs slowly, careful to avoid causing any creaks in the splintering planks. As she approaches the landing, however, she begins to hear noise, the first significant noise in this silent warehouse – indistinguishable words mixed with fuzzy static. Someone’s listening to the radio.

Slipping off her shoes – 1940’s heels were not built for stealth – Natasha wraps her fingers tightly around her gun and slowly pushes the door open, just enough so she can get a look. It doesn’t squeak, thank goodness.

The third floor looks like it might have been offices, but at least one dividing wall’s been knocked down and a lot of the desks and furniture have been pushed topsy-turvy to the sides, leaving an open space in the middle. There’s a chalk circle drawn on the floor, evidently to mark the time machine portal. In one corner is an industrial-grade electric lamp, shining brightly, and silhouetted black against it is a man’s head.

His back is to her, thank goodness. Natasha slips through the door and closes it silently as the radio continues to chatter, now evidently the news “– the area was cordoned off and no one was harmed by the simulated raid –”

It would be quicker and cleaner to simply headshot him from where she is, but she needs information first, such as the whereabouts of the second operative. Padding up to just out of his reach, Natasha pulls the gun out of her pocket and aims it at him – she can see his gun, it’s in a holster slung over a chair, and not within his immediate grasp. Lovely. “Hey, sailor,” she says.

The man jumps and turns around – he’s thin-faced, with dark eyes and a sharp nose. “Who the hell are you?” he demands.

Natasha briefly deliberates if she should tell him she’s from the future or not, and decides it’s better to keep him wondering. “Not important,” she says. “I’d much rather know who you are.” The radio announcer continues to expostulate, now about sports.

The man’s frowning at her, eyes darting from point to point on her body as he tries to decipher who she is – at least, that’s what Natasha hopes he’s doing. “Look, lady,” he says slowly. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I’d suggest putting the gun away…”

Natasha pulls the safety down, and it makes a satisfyingly audible click. “Hands where I can see them,” she says. “And I think I’ll do the suggesting. What’s your name?”

He raises his hands warily. “Archie Tuska.”

“Whaddya doing here, Archie?” says Natasha, artificially sweet.

He must have decided she’s from 1940, because he says, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Look, ma’am, I just work here…”

Natasha raises her eyebrows at him. “Really?”

“I do, I swear, look I’m working –”

“How about we both quit fucking around?” says Natasha, still smiling. “I know who you are and why you’re here. How’s 1973? Enjoy the oil prices while they last.”

The speed with which the color drains out of his face is extremely rewarding. “How do you – what –”

She’s still got the gun trained on him. “Use your words, Archie.”

Archie narrows his eyes at her again. “Are you from the future too?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I really don’t like that gun.”

“Too bad.” The radio’s moved into commercials now, some bouncy jingle. “Are you the only one here?” As far as she can tell from the bedroll in the corner, it’s just him.

“Uh, yeah?” says Archie. “Why, is there supposed to be someone else?”

Oh no, thinks Natasha. If the second operative gets sent here because of what I said –

An ominous crackling sound starts up behind her.

Still keeping the gun trained on Archie, Natasha steps aside to see the air over the circle on the floor _rippling_ , there’s shadows that shouldn’t be there and blue-white electric sparks, the static energy in the room is making her scalp prickle and she can smell something oily and metallic –

Everything ripples and goes vertiginous, Natasha fights to keep her balance and her vision, out of the corner of her eye she can see Archie looking extremely queasy. Then everything really does go dark, and she staggers back against a chair. For a second there’s nothing but blackness and static crackle, and then she can see again. Straightening, cold sweat on her forehead, Natasha looks up and sees a man standing in the circle.

He’s maybe in his early forties or late thirties, tall, solidly built, with a square jaw and a very seventies haircut, and... and he looks _off,_ somehow.

“Basil?” says Archie tentatively. “Basil, you okay?”

Basil rotates his head to look at him, and his eyes are not right at all, black-rimmed and artificially blue. There’s black leaking from his nose as well, and when he suddenly grins at the two of them his teeth are stained tarry as well –

“I’m guessing you know this guy?” says Natasha to Archie, her gun now firmly pointed at Basil.

“Yeah, we – we work together –” Archie’s edging towards his own gun. “Basil, what – what happened to you –”

“He wasn’t like this in 1973?”

“No, he was not,” says Archie emphatically. “Basil, what happened – was it the time machine –”

Turning back to Archie, Basil bares his teeth in a reasonable approximation of a grin and starts speaking in a language completely unintelligible to Natasha, which is saying something. “Okay,” she mutters, shifting her grip on her gun and aiming it straight at Basil’s forehead. “Archie, no offense, but I think your coworker’s officially gone, so I’m just going to –” and she fires.

But Basil’s head doesn’t jerk back like it should, there’s no blood, and that’s when she realizes the bullet’s hanging in midair in front of him, glowing blue, and he’s just _staring_ at it.

“Ohhh, _shit,_ ” says Natasha.

The bullet falls to the ground and Basil’s staring at Natasha with pure menace, and chills run down her spine. There’s loud bang after bang as Archie fires at Basil but none of the bullets hit –

– and suddenly Basil’s right in front of her and she goes for a kick but somehow he’s grabbing her throat and face, everything smells like electrical burning and his eyes are drilling into hers and everything’s going violent blue and black –

 

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Texas_School_Book_Depository


	6. Chapter 6

 

> Listen: Billy Pilgrim has come unstuck in time.
> 
> \- _Slaughterhouse-Five,_ Kurt Vonnegut

 

– and he’s gone and she’s blinking in bright sunlight, Natasha stumbles, regains her balance, and realizes she’s outside. The sun is warm on her shoulders and she can hear cars honking and she’s standing in front of a church, a small drab Catholic building, into which people are trickling…

This is this morning, Natasha realizes. I was here this morning. And sure enough there’s Steve, entering the church, and Natasha was almost here seven hours ago.

What the hell is going on, she thinks, shaking, and –

\--

– finds herself on a different street, the sun is much lower in the sky and the weather is hotter, more humid. Natasha sidesteps out of the way of a pedestrian, looks up and sees the office building of _The Age_ up above her. So that must mean – yes, she can just see Steve walking down the street, so this must be another afternoon when she was still working at _The Age_ and leaving for the day –

\--

She’s in her apartment, sitting on the bed, the lamp on and the curtains shut. Okay, thinks Natasha, letting out a slow breath. The radio’s on, she can hear classical music filtering through, punctuated by the occasional cough. Okay, so, I’m here, Steve’s in his apartment, it’s a typical evening. This must have been some time over the past two weeks. There’s a pile of newspapers on the floor, and she grabs the top one – it’s dated June 1st. So it’s the first of June, or maybe the second. Still her past.

Natasha keeps waiting for the next jump to another time, but it doesn’t happen. She’s still sitting on her bed, and nothing changes, she just stays sitting still while a staticky concerto lilts through the room. All right, thinks Natasha. Focus. First you have to figure out what’s going on.

Basil grabbed me, she remembers, and as if reminded by that her throat suddenly starts aching. Natasha reaches tentative fingers up to the bruises on her neck, and they come away stained oily black. Grabbing a nearby shirt, Natasha scrubs vigorously at her neck until she feels like the stain is more or less gone, although there’s now black liquid seeping through the thin fabric… Whoever Basil is, he must have been somehow corrupted by the time travel, and then he touched her, and now she’s been sent back through time.

It sounds ridiculous even as she thinks it, but she _has_ gone back in time, and something was very clearly wrong with Basil, and she did start jumping back as soon as he touched her.

Wait a minute, Natasha realizes. I’ve gone back, back to before when I met Steve. Maybe this is why he doesn’t remember me, I’ve got a second chance to do things over –

\--

Cold water pours down on her and she gasps, stepping backwards. She’s out in the street again and it’s pouring rain, it hasn’t rained yet while Natasha’s been in New York, this must be some other day –

A car horn blares at her and Natasha jumps out of the way. “Hey lady, whaddya doin’?” yells a cabbie as he drives by.

Clutching her coat around her, Natasha backs onto the sidewalk until she’s against a wall building. Deep breaths, she’s fine, she can deal with this, she’s been in the middle of gunfights and around nuclear bombs and gone up against evil sentient robots, she can handle being scattered through time.

A car pulls up to the curb and out steps an older man in military uniform, holding an umbrella up. After him comes a woman, with dark curls and red lipstick and a certain air of command –

“I’m not sure about this,” she says, polished British accent clear and carrying. “Do you really think this is the safest location –”

That’s Peggy Carter, Natasha realizes. Maybe she can help –

“Ms. Carter!” Natasha shouts, running towards her, fingers numb and cold. Peggy and the military man are heading up the stairs into a building – “Peggy!”

Peggy turns to look at her, eyes wide with surprise –

\--

“Gee, Natalie,” says Charlie. “You okay? You’re lookin’ awfully pale –”

\--

The air is warm and dry and Natasha can hear birdsong and there’s grass under her stockinged feet. More than that, however, she can’t tell, because her vision’s blurring and her head swims and suddenly the ground is both far away and very, very close…

Everything is dark , she’s floating away…

Slowly the world stops spinning. Natasha can feel her body again; her ears are ringing with white noise, but beyond that someone with a strong Brooklyn accent is saying, “Ma’am, can you hear me? Ma’am?”

Natasha groans and opens her eyes. She is indeed lying on the ground, on what feels like grass, cold sweat on her forehead and back. Leaning over her are a man and a woman. “Oh, she’s awake!” says the woman, who has spectacles and a head full of gray curls. “Are you all right?”

“Hey, somebody get some water!” shouts the man, apparently at a bystander. He pronounces it “wha-duh,” and has a very dapper hat.

“I think I fainted,” mumbles Natasha, and tries to sit up. She’s in a large park – Central Park, she thinks she recognizes it, though there’s something different about the June green of the grass and the trees.

“No no no, you just lie still,” says the woman, pushing her hand against Natasha’s shoulder with surprising force. “Are you feeling ill? You’re very pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?” says the man skeptically. He’s maybe in his late fifties, handsome, with a big nose. “You just kind of fell –”

“I’m fine,” repeats Natasha, firmer, and attempts to sit up again. This time the woman lets her. “It must have been the heat.”

“You’re still very, very pale,” says the woman. “Are you sure you’re not ill? Let us take you to the hospital –”

Oh God, Natasha thinks suddenly. What if they know who I am and this is just a ploy to catch me –

“I’m fine, really,” she says, scrambling to her feet and managing a smile. “This happens all the time.”

The couple rises with her, looking entirely unconvinced. “Are you sure?” says the man.

“I’m sure.” Natasha’s already starting to back away, that would be her luck, wouldn’t it, that they grab her before she jumps through time again. The woman looks frankly worried at this point, and takes the man’s arm – Natasha can see why, she’s barefoot, hair still wet, and she’s sure the smile on her face isn’t right at all…

“Ma’am –”

“I really have to go,” and she turns and walks away as fast as she can, resisting the urge to check over her shoulder. There’s a clump of trees and some shrubbery up ahead, she doesn’t hear pursuing footsteps on the gravel behind her so maybe they decided to leave her alone –

Natasha rounds the corner, ducks behind one of the trees. Through a gap in the bushes she can just see the couple, who appear to be in conversation; then the woman shrugs, puts her arm through the man’s, and they start walking in the opposite direction from Natasha.

Sighing in relief, Natasha tips her head back against the tree. But the more she thinks about it, the more her moment of panic seems entirely foolish. They were nothing more than an ordinary couple, trying to help. “Get a hold of yourself,” she mutters. She can figure out what’s going on and find a way to get out of it, but only if she keeps a level head on her shoulders –

“Natasha?” says a man, voice impeccably English and impossibly familiar. “Miss Romanoff –”

\--

It’s dark, it’s very dark, she’s sitting with her back to something hard and metallic and the air smells of dusty books –

“Hey,” whispers Steve from beside her, “Miss Roman, you all right?”

Natasha jumps, staring at him – they’re in the abandoned depository in one of the storage rooms, it must be night now because the little light in the room is blue-tinged. Steve’s sitting next to her, both of them with their backs to one of the shelving units, and the uncomfortable realization comes to Natasha that they’re hiding…

“I’m fine,” she breathes – except she’s not, the only way this could get worse is if Steve got involved – “What are we – what’s going on –”

Steve looks at her strangely. “Whaddya mean, what’s going on?”

“Just humor me,” she hisses.

“We’re hiding from that _thing_ ,” he whispers back, still looking at her like he’s not entirely convinced of her sanity.

By thing she can only assume he means Basil – “But what are you doing here?”

“You didn’t come back to the hotel like you said you would, so Buck and I went looking for you –”

“And you knew to find me here?”

“Yeah, you dropped this –” Steve digs in his pocket, pulls out a newspaper clipping – it’s the same article Natasha read, about the lights and noises at the depository, except _she never cut it out of the paper._ “So we came here –” He stops short just as a weird rattling gurgle starts up behind them.

The hairs on the back of Natasha’s neck prickle. “Is that –”

“Shhh,” says Steve, who looks terrified. _Steve_ , who jumps out of planes without parachutes and flips motorcycles and punched the Red Skull in the face –

“ _Nāṉ nīṅkaḷ kāṇpīrkaḷ,”_ rasps a voice from the darkness behind them, mocking. “ _Nīṅkaḷ maṟaikka muṭiyātu –”_

 _Is that him?_ mouths Natasha. Steve nods. Holding her breath, Natasha turns her head so she can just see out of the corner of her eye –

It’s Basil, all right, but whatever the time machine did to him seems only to have intensified. Black liquid leaks from his eyes and trails from his nose and mouth onto his chest, his eyes and fingertips are glowing blue, and he moves down the aisle of shelves with a weird lurching shuffle –

All right, thinks Natasha. He’s not moving that fast, we can easily outrun him. Tapping Steve on the shoulder, she leans over and puts a mouth to his ear. “ _Move to the other side, we can run,”_ she breathes.

“ _Nāṉ nīṅkaḷ vācaṉai_ –”

Steve shakes his head frantically, eyes wide. Fine, thinks Natasha, I don’t care if you’re scared it’s up to me to get us out of this situation alive, and she shifts into a crouch, ignoring Steve’s hand on her arm. She moves around him, tenses to run, and darts into the other aisle –

– and Basil’s _right in her face,_ she jumps back and he leers at her with inky teeth – “ _Nīṅkaḷ!_ ” he gurgles.

“I _told_ you –” shouts Steve, yanking her backwards. “Come on!”

They run into the next aisle and down it – there’s more black goop smeared on the floor – and skid to a halt behind a stack of boxes. Steve shudders, repressing a cough. “So he can teleport,” whispers Natasha. “Great. Is that why you haven’t gotten out of here yet? And where the hell is Bucky?”

“He’s upstairs,” pants Steve. “Technically.”

Natasha’s skin turns cold, more at Steve’s tone than his words. “What do you mean –”

“ _Maṟaikka vēṇṭām_ …”

“I mean he ran into the thing first and it put his hand on his face, and…” Steve mimes smearing something over his own face. “He’s just kind of lying there, I can’t get him to wake up –”

Steve’s terror suddenly makes a lot more sense. Natasha swallows hard, processing – what if Bucky’s jumping through time now as well – “And that’s why you won’t get out of here.”

Steve sets his jaw as determined as it’s ever been. “I’m not leaving him.”

“Look, I appreciate that, but we can’t help him like this –”

“ _Paci, paci, eṉakkum pacikkiṟatu_ ,” croons Basil, and Natasha can hear the soft hideous sound of him _creeping_ down the next aisle. Trying very hard not to breathe loudly, Natasha nudges Steve and starts slowly shifting down the row of shelves, hoping to get further away without triggering a sudden appearance.

“What happened to the other guy?” she whispers. “Archie?”

“It ate him,” says Steve.

Natasha stares at him, the smell of oil curling in the air –

\--

“– didn’t think it was possible,” Bucky is saying. “But I’m having one hell of a time coming up with another explanation.”

Natasha blinks at him in the sudden sunlight. “I’m afraid –”

“Look, I read my H.G. Wells –”

\--

Dust drifts lazily in a sunbeam and it’s _quiet_ , there’s just Natasha and the sunlight bouncing softly off a polished floor and the sound of her own breathing…

Natasha slumps against the nearest wall, takes a moment to catch her breath and waits for her heart to slow its pounding. She knows this hallway, this is in the building where _The Age_ ’s office is. In fact, that’s their door right across from her.

Her hands are shaking, she realizes, and clenches them into fists. I can handle this, she thinks, and then realizes, No, I can’t. I have no clue what to do and no way to combat any of this.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispers. Maybe this is the time that whoever’s been helping her will suddenly appear… but there’s nothing. No change, no sounds, just sunlight drifting in and her own heart thudding dully in her chest.

If I had time, she thinks, I could figure this out. But that’s the one commodity she’s without, any second now she could be sent back to the depository or Central Park or planted in the middle of the street –

Wait a minute, she realizes. She has plenty of time. She has almost a century.

Rushing over to the door, she opens it – _please don’t send me to another time, please let Charlie be there_ – and looks in. The office is busy with the sounds of typing and chatter, and oh, thank God, there’s Charlie at her desk –

“Charlie!” Natasha hisses, and then realizes, there’s no way she’s going to hear her. Thankfully her desk is one of the ones closer to the door. Darting inside, Natasha slides into the empty seat almost before Charlie’s even looked up.

“Natalie!” says Charlie, loud and high-pitched, and Natasha frantically shushes her. “What’re ya doin’ here?”

“I need you to do me a favor,” says Natasha, grabbing a pen and paper. “Can we talk outside?”

“Sure thing – Gee, Natalie, you okay? You’re lookin’ awfully pale.”

“I’m fine,” says Natasha, clutching the corner of the desk against a sudden moment of vertigo. “Come on –”

Charlie follows Natasha out into the hallway. “What is it?” she says, the second the door closes behind them.

But Natasha’s already writing furiously – she can’t waste a second, she could be transported any moment – and as soon as she’s finished she rips the paper off and shoves it into Charlie’s hands. “I need you to put this in the personals,” she says. “For as many days as you can. Please.”

Charlie reads over Natasha’s hastily scribbled message, her lips moving along with the words – _N.R. to C.B. I found him, but problems arose. Meet me at the Slaughterhouse on Fifth Street as soon as possible. Bring help._ As her eyes travel down the page, they get progressively wider. “Gee, Natalie…”

“Please,” says Natasha, not caring how desperate she sounds. It’s a gamble, a huge gamble – she doesn’t know if Clint or anyone else will ever see it, or understand the reference, but – “As a friend –”

Charlie looks up from the paper to stare at her in unabashed admiration. “Are you a spy?”

At this point Natasha wouldn’t have thought anything would surprise her, but this does. “…What?”

“You are, aren’t you! Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone – I thought so!” Charlie whispers triumphantly. “I’ll put this in, don’t worry – you’re a spy, _golly…_ ”

“Thank you so much,” says Natasha. “Thank –”

\--

“– you.”

She’s in the lobby of the cheap hotel she checked herself and Steve into, the floor a dull sienna, walls the color of porridge. Her pistol is still a weight in her pocket and she’s got her shoes on, this must be before she went to the depository.

“Excuse me,” says a harsh voice to her left. “Ma’am?”

Natasha turns to see the proprietress of the hotel, a tall woman in her forties with a severe hairstyle, standing behind the desk. She does not look pleased at all. “Yes?”

“What’s going on, if ya don’t mind me askin’?” she says. “First you and this other fella check in for your ‘honeymoon,’ and then this other guy comes by, real angry, wanting to know where you are –”

“Oh, no,” says Natasha. “It’s nothing like that –”

The proprietress continues to glare at her. “I run a good moral establishment, I don’t want no funny business –”

“It’s not,” insists Natasha – damn it, why can’t she get zapped away now? “It’s – it’s secret government business. For the war.”

The proprietress’ eyes narrow. “Really.”

“Oh, absolutely,” says Natasha. “But it’s very top secret, you understand, we can’t risk anyone knowing what’s going on…”

“I’ve half a mind to call the police.”

“Fine, do that,” says Natasha. “I’d hate to be here when it gets out that you called the police on top secret government agents doing work to end the war.”

Chewing her lip, the proprietress taps a pencil on the desk. “What kind of work?”

“I’m not authorized to tell you that,” says Natasha. “But if you love your country and don’t want the Germans or the Japs to win, you have to believe me.”

The proprietress looks marginally more convinced. “I don’t know…”

\--

She’s back in Central Park, in the same clump of trees and bushes. “Natasha!” says the Englishman, and she whips around to see him striding towards her. He’s tall, and fair-skinned, and though she doesn’t recognize him, she _knows_ him, she absolutely knows that voice –

“ _Vision_?”

“Thank God, I was starting to worry I wouldn’t find you –” He’s standing up close to her now, so she can see his white-blonde curls and blue eyes and freckled, very _real_ human skin. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, but –” She can’t stop staring at him, he looks so different and yet very much the same. “What happened to you? Why do you look like that?”

“What? Oh yes, this is –” He looks down at himself and his period-accurate clothes, as if still unsure of his appearance. “This is just a temporary illusion to help me blend in better.”

They couldn’t do that in 2018, not to this degree. “Vision,” says Natasha slowly, “what year are you coming from?”

“Ah,” he says. “Yes. 2046, I’m afraid. It was the earliest we could get the time machine working again.”

“Time machine working. Again.”

“Yes,” says Vision. “Perhaps we should sit down?”

There’s a bench not too far away. “Look,” says Natasha, sitting down beside him, “I could get sent to another time at any second so tell me the most important stuff first –”

“Here,” says Vision. “Take my hand.”

Natasha stares suspiciously at his upturned palm and open fingers, as if it’s a bear trap that might close on her own hand. “Why?”

“You won’t leave if you’re anchored to me. We’re not sure why, but it works.”

Slowly she takes his hand, his long white fingers wrapping around hers… and anchored is the right word, just the simple contact of another human being, one she knows and trusts, makes her feel grounded in a way she realizes she’d desperately needed. “Okay,” she says. “So.”

“So.”

“You got my message, then?” she says. He looks at her blankly, and she adds, “In the newspaper. The personal ad.”

“Ah, no,” he says. “I was told I needed to come here by you, actually.”

“Oh.” Natasha takes a second to parse this. “So – does that mean I make it back?” A horrible thought occurs to her. “I don’t randomly appear in 2046, do I?”

“Not to my knowledge, no,” says Vision, with a smile. “But yes, you do make it back – or at least one version of you does.”

Natasha glares at him suspiciously. “What does that mean?”

He sighs, frowning slightly at the middle distance. “It’s rather like Schrödinger’s cat, I imagine. Right now there are two distinct and opposing possibilities, one in which you do not survive and I am therefore never informed to come back and speak to you, and one in which you do –”

“Which is clearly this one, since you’re here –”

“– but until it is proven decisively and the metaphorical box is opened, both exist simultaneously, and as such either outcome is a possibility regardless of past events.”

Natasha slumps forward with her head in her hand. “Time travel,” she groans. “I’m never doing this again…” Vision just looks at her sympathetically; she suspects that if his hand was free he’d pat her on the back. “And what’s this about the time machine not working until 2046?”

“Not long after you come through, something in its programming goes wrong,” he says. “We were unable to correct the anomaly until twenty-eight years later.”

“At which point you came back to help me,” says Natasha. “Does that mean – it’s you, you’re the one who’s been helping me –”

Vision frowns at her. “I’m sorry?”

Natasha runs through all the odd coincidences, from the vacancies to the helpful newspapers. But she’s barely even finished before Vision’s shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but whoever it was, it was not me,” he says. “I did none of that.”

“But you _could_ ,” says Natasha. “In the future.”

He looks thoughtful. “I suppose…”

“Someone has to. At some point.” She pauses, considering. “Someone already did.”

“Well, if no one else does, you have my word that I will,” says Vision, smiling slightly.

“Thanks.” Her hand is still in his; it’s starting to feel a little less weird. “But about what’s happening now…”

“Yes,” says Vision. “I expect you have questions.”

“You bet I do,” says Natasha. “First question: Basil. What the hell is he?”

“Basil Sandhurst was an agent in the employ of HYDRA, much like his partner Archie Tuska. When Tuska was chosen to go back into the past and eliminate Steve Rogers, Sandhurst was also selected as backup, to go through in case things went wrong. Tuska failed to make his rendezvous in 1973, so it was assumed that he had indeed failed his mission. Sandhurst went through a week later, in the hopes that he would succeed instead.

“However, HYDRA’s method of time travel was much more invasive than the method hit upon by Tony and Miss Foster. And as is the nature of invasion, it draws attention from those who would much rather things be left alone. In this case, a time deity named Kāla saw the rupture that had been created, and as Sandhurst passed through, possessed him.”

It’s strangely quiet in the park, the sounds of birds and people dim and far away. To Natasha the peacefulness feels deceptive, too calm while a darker storm rages underneath. “And now he’s in 1943,” she says. “In an abandoned depository, terrorizing me and Steve Rogers.”

“Yes,” says Vision. “Perhaps possession was the wrong word, as it implies complete takeover. ‘Meld’ might be a better verb. Sandhurst still has his mission objective of killing Rogers, except now compounded by Kāla’s penchant for mischief and destruction and supernatural powers.”

“Which includes the ability to send me back and forth through time.”

“Not so much send as simply knock you loose, like a bolt in a wall, perhaps.”

“Really? That’s the analogy you’re going for?”

“I’m not explaining it very well, am I?” he says. “I’m afraid that interdimensional time travel is not one of the many things that comes intuitively to me.”

“Well, you’re doing better than I would, so I’ll let it slide,” murmurs Natasha. “How do I stop him?”

“Obviously the first priority is getting Steve Rogers to safety –”

“I’m not going to be able to do that, short of knocking him on the head and carrying him out myself,” says Natasha. “Which, granted, is a feasible plan –”

“What do you mean?” Vision sounds genuinely confused.

“Basil-Kāla got their hands on Bucky, whatever it did to him has him out in a coma or something, and Steve won’t leave without him –”

“Basil touched _Bucky?_ ”

“Yeah,” says Natasha, wondering why Vision looks so stunned – he and Bucky get along pretty well, but she didn’t think Vision cared that much about him. “At least, that’s what Steve said –”

“No, that’s not right,” says Vision. “It should have been –” and he stops dead.

“Who?” says Natasha. “Should have been who? Don’t leave me hanging –”

“I’m afraid I can’t say –”

“According to Steve, Basil _ate_ Archie too. How does that work out? Didn’t they find his body?”

“Steve may have been being metaphorical,” says Vision distantly.

Natasha glares at him suspiciously. “Vision.”

“Hmm?”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

He blinks at her, eyes wide and guileless. “I beg your pardon?”

Her grip on his hand tightens; she can feel hard steel underneath the skin. “There’s information you’re not telling me. What is it?”

“Natasha, if there is information I am keeping from you, trust that it is for a very good reason –”

“That’s bullshit,” she snaps.

“– and understand that I do not know everything myself. I am trying to be helpful, I swear.”

“I know,” sighs Natasha. “That’s probably part of the problem... And then there’s the fact that I was never supposed to interact with Steve in the first place.”

“As to that,” says Vision, “I would advise you not to jump to conclusions yet. Much can still happen.”

“Very helpful,” she murmurs. They sit in silence for a while. Natasha doesn’t know what Vision’s thinking about, but for her own part, she’s enjoying the chance to sit still without being sent from time to time. “So, now what?” she says eventually.

“We turn our attention to the immediate problem of Basil Sandhurst.”

“Yeah,” says Natasha. “About that. How am I supposed to kill him? Assuming I make it back to the depository at all.”

“Sandhurst’s body is essentially dead at this point,” says Vision. “The real opponent is Kāla, and I believe I have that situation covered.” He taps his forehead, where the Infinity Stone would be.

“Really,” says Natasha. “That’s awfully convenient.”

“Not at all,” Vision responds. “Why do you think I was sent here?”

“… Fair. So then how do we get to that time? Considering the fact I’m still shoeless I’m assuming we’re in the future relative to then –”

“I believe so,” says Vision. “Today is the eighth of June.”

“And we were in the depository on the sixth. How do we get back there? I assume I’ll end up there sooner or later, but for you –”

“I’ll be there,” says Vision. “Regrettably, we still haven’t figured out how to send more than one person at a time through the time machine, or I would take you directly with me.”

“It’d probably run the risk of me being in two places at once, too,” says Natasha. “If I go to 2046.”

“Yes,” says Vision. “That too.”

“And I’m supposed to just wait until I end up at the depository?”

“I suspect you will get there sooner, rather than later,” says Vision. “Kāla is not the type to let their prey go for very long.”

“That’s comforting,” murmurs Natasha.

Vision looks at her in surprise. “It is?”

She smiles and pats him on the arm with her free hand. “Sarcasm, Vision.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Thirty years of living with Tony and you still haven’t picked up on it,” she says fondly. “What am I going to do with you.” Vision just chuckles. “I guess if I ask about what the future’s like you’re not going to tell me?”

“Of course not,” says Vision. “Part of what makes humanity so fascinating is the way you react to and grow with change. Why would I deprive you of something so intrinsic to your personal experience?”

Despite herself, Natasha laughs; it feels strange, as if she has no business making that happy a sound when everything is so thoroughly going to shit. “Oh, Vision,” she says. “Never change.”

“I will admit, I intend not to.”

“So,” she says, getting ready to release her grip on his hand, “I’ll see you at the depository, then?”

“I am sure you will.”

“Make sure you get there on time,” she says, and lets go.


	7. Chapter 7

> “Time…line? Time isn’t made out of lines, it’s made out of circles! That is why clocks are round.”
> 
> \- Caboose from _Red vs. Blue_

 

It’s different this time.

Maybe it’s because of her contact with Vision, or maybe now that she’s had the chance to orient herself she’s more aware of her surroundings. But this time, in the split second before she goes, she has a distinct sense of direction, of a tiny voice asking her, _where do you want to go?_

_The warehouse_ , she thinks, and focuses with all her might.

Natasha knows it’s worked because it’s dark and she smells dust and tar, there’s cold metal against her back, and Steve lies unconscious on the floor…

“Steve,” breathes Natasha, crawling towards him. It’s hard to tell in the dim light but he looks far too pale; when she shakes his shoulder his head lolls limply from side to side, mouth slack. There’s a large black handprint on his chest. “ _Shit._ ” She checks for a pulse, two fingers against his clammy neck, and his pulse is slow and faint but it’s there…

From the aisle behind her comes a gurgling chuckle and Natasha freezes, hairs on her arms and back of her neck rising. “ _Nāṉ uṉ payattai vācaṉai,”_ burbles Basil, singsong. “ _Itu mikavum nalla vācaṉai_ …”

A cold hand grabs the back of her neck.

Natasha grabs the knife in her pocket and stabs it behind her; it hits resistance and there’s a spine-tingling howl that makes the edges of her vision go black and blue. Lunging forward, Natasha scoops Steve up in her arms – he’s so light, he’s _too_ light, worry curls in her stomach – and in a flash of split-second intuition heads for the back of the warehouse, towards the stairs.

Basil doesn’t want me to get out, he wants to keep me in, Natasha thinks, and she must be right because he doesn’t materialize in front of her as she dashes into the stairwell, Steve’s head flopping heavy against her arm. But the second she sets foot on the stairs, there’s an ominous blue glow at the top of them and a thick liquid gurgling. Basil is standing there, hands flickering cobalt and tar bubbling between his teeth as he breathes in and out.

Natasha glares at him, clutching Steve protectively against her chest. “Yeah?” she says to Basil, who’s staring back down at her. “Come at me, you motherfucker.”

Basil tilts his head to the side, grins.

She has the skeleton of a plan, the spine of which is _Wait for Vision._ But here’s the thing – he’s only in 1943 on instructions from her. Which means she can decide right now where she wants him to appear, and not have to tell him that until a hundred years later.

Okay, Vision, she thinks. If you want to show up in three – two – one –

There’s a flash like lightning and suddenly Vision is floating behind Basil, cape and Infinity Stone glowing golden. “Hello,” he says, and Basil turns creakily to look at him. “I hear you’ve been giving my friend some trouble.”

Basil hisses and lunges at him, but Vision dances out of his reach. “Mm, no,” he says. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that –”

The cat-and-mouse game continues, with Vision fluidly avoiding Basil’s swipes and grabs, and it only takes Natasha a second to realize he’s leading Basil onto the second floor and away from the stairs –

Holding tightly to Steve, Natasha dashes up the stairs two at a time, if Vision’s leading Basil out of her way that must mean she’s supposed to keep going up, which makes sense, that’s where HYDRA’s time portal is, that’s where Bucky is –

She skids into the third floor room, where a prone figure lies on its back, face dripping and black. Swearing in Russian, Natasha lays Steve down on the ground and crouches over Bucky, using her coat sleeve to try and wipe away the clinging muck from his nose and mouth. But it’s thick and tarry and all she seems to be able to do is just spread it around more, it’s in his nostrils and throat and there’s no way he can breathe through that, there’s no way.

Natasha puts two fingers to Bucky’s carotid, waits for a pulse. Nothing. She switches to a wrist, holding longer than she knows is logical, but there’s no pulse, no flicker of life, his skin is ice-cold.

From the floor below her, she hears muffled shrieks and groans of frustration. Natasha kneels on the floor by Bucky’s body, knees aching against the hard floor, and stares at nothing. Bucky can’t be dead. He didn’t die in 1943, he’s alive and well right now, sitting next to Steve in a basement in Avengers HQ, waiting for her to come back through the time machine. He fell off a train in the Alps. He rescued Steve from the Potomac. He’s _alive._

Maybe he’s not actually dead, she thinks numbly. I don’t know what Basil can do, perhaps Bucky’s just in suspended animation, a comatose state… He’s tough, he can take way more damage than normal, and then she remembers no, he _can’t_ , he’s just a normal human right now…

But there’s only so long he can survive without a pulse. And Natasha knows, deep down, what she’d first started realizing ever since she knocked Steve down on the sidewalk. This is the wrong timeline. She’s not supposed to be here.

_It’s rather like Schr_ _ödinger’s cat, I imagine,_ Vision had said. _Right now there are two distinct and opposing possibilities, but until it is proven decisively and the metaphorical box is opened, both exist simultaneously, and as such either outcome is a possibility regardless of past events._

I need to go back, she thinks.

There’s a sudden shriek and flash of blue light and Basil is suddenly all but on top of her, Natasha yells and kicks him in the chest. Basil hisses, recovering, and as he lunges back towards Natasha freezes because she’s just had the thought, what if he sends her back in time again –

A beam of golden light blasts through Basil, tumbling him away and flat onto his back. Natasha turns around to see Vision hovering in the doorway, hands tense and held at the ready. “I think this has gone on quite long enough,” he says with evident distaste.

Basil’s body is now sprawled on the floor, a hole punched clean through his torso, black liquid splattered _everywhere._ “You’ve upgraded,” says Natasha.

“I suppose I have,” says Vision, drifting down to land beside her. “How is Mr. Rogers?”

“Alive,” says Natasha. “Barely.” She’s… remarkably calm, actually, considering everything. Perhaps it’s because she knows that none of this actually matters.

“And –” Vision crouches, touches a hand to Bucky’s forehead, visibly alarmed. “He’s _dead._ ”

“Yes.”

Vision looks at her with wide eyes. “But this – this wasn’t supposed to happen. This isn’t how you said it happened. Barnes survived, he assisted you once I returned to my time – Rogers was put into a coma by Sandhurst but recovered, though with no memory of the events leading up to this –”[1]

“That’s what I told you?” says Natasha.

Eyes flicking from dead Bucky to unconscious Steve to her face and back again, Vision nods.

“Well, then I’ve got to go take it up with Schrödinger’s cat.” Standing, Natasha brushes dirt off her knees and checks her pockets for weapons. None, but there’s her pistol lying on the ground, and Archie’s is still hanging in its holster on the chair.

“Natasha –” Vision hastily gets to his feet, and he sounds and looks genuinely worried. “What are you going to do –”

“I don’t know,” she says, collecting the weapons. She needs to go back into the past. Well, Basil’s dead, but maybe that won’t be much of an issue. When she jumped back in time initially, it wasn’t just because he touched her. He got that black goop all over her neck as well. “Change the past, I guess.”

“Whatever you’re thinking of, don’t,” says Vision, grabbing her arm; he looks more frightened than she’s ever seen him. “We can take our time, we can figure this out –”

Smiling slightly, Natasha gently removes his hand. Thor was right, she thinks. I can’t plan this, I can only _do._ “It’ll be okay,” she says. “I got this.”

“There are far too many variables, incalculable risks –”

“Hey, Vision,” says Natasha. “Do me a favor, tell me something about the future?”

He regards her unhappily. “What?”

“How’s Clint doing?”

Vision’s lips curve in a tiny smile. “Very well, considering,” he says. “I’m afraid he’s starting to go deaf, though.”

“I keep telling him to turn down his music,” says Natasha. “Say hi to him for me when you get back, all right? You _can_ get back?”

“Yes of course, I’m fine,” says Vision. “But you –”

“Don’t worry about me, I got this.” Crouching by Basil’s body, she touches two fingers experimentally to the black liquid oozing from his wound; it tingles on her skin with potential energy. “Really.”

“But what are you going to _do?_ ”

“Change the past,” says Natasha, standing. “Bucky didn’t die here, right? So I’ve got to go back, do things different –”

“But that’s not – that’s not what you said you did.” Poor Vision’s looking more and more distressed; an improviser he is not. “When you spoke to me in 2046 –”

“Maybe I lied,” says Natasha, getting to her feet. “I’m sure I’ll have a very good reason at the time.”

Vision appears entirely unconvinced. “But how do you know –”

“I don’t.” That’s okay, though. At least, she hopes it is. “I’m just going with my gut on this one.”

“But –”

“Hey.” Natasha puts a hand on his arm. “Trust me.”

“It’s not you I don’t trust –”

She has no idea what she’s doing, but that’s okay, because someone mysterious is looking out for her and there is definitely a universe where Steve Rogers survives to save the world. “It’ll be okay,” she says, and touches the fingers she dipped in the black liquid to her mouth.

\--

Her vision goes blue and she tastes bitter oil. Back, she thinks desperately, back to before Basil came through, before Archie shot at Steve –

The light is gold and umber and she’s sitting on a hard wooden bench, the smell of incense filling the air. This is the church! she realizes with a thrill of excitement, there’s Steve, I did it, I made it back –

Just not far back enough. But there’s still an acrid taste on the back of her tongue and the edges of her vision flicker cobalt, and all she has to do is close her eyes and focus. Yesterday night, she thinks, a small bell chiming at the front of the church. Take me to yesterday night –

\--

Freezing cold rain pours down on her and Natasha staggers, okay, this is definitely _not_ last night –

“Ma’am?” Peggy Carter’s walking towards her, not a hair out of place under her umbrella. “Are you all right –”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” says Natasha, taking a step back. Peggy doesn’t need to get involved in this, she has her own story to tell.

Peggy frowns, the military man hovering perplexed in the background. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, absolutely,” and Natasha focuses with all her might on _my apartment, the night of June fifth –_

\--

Well, she’s definitely in her apartment, at least. Newspapers, she thinks, thank God she daily brought back newspapers, and reaches for the top one on the pile on the bed. _MILITARY COUP OUSTS CASTILLO FROM BUENOS AIRES,_ reads the headline. And in the top right corner is the date, June 5 th, 1943.

Natasha slumps down on the bed, allowing herself one brief second of just doing nothing at all. Okay, she thinks. First things first. Archie takes his shot at Steve tomorrow. That definitely needs to not happen. Well, lucky for her she knows exactly when and where he’s going to be.

Taking him out is the obvious first step. Then Natasha has about six or so hours before Basil comes through (assuming he does at the same time he did previously) – but that’s just an assumption, and she’s not going to rely on those. So she’ll need to head over to the depository immediately and intercept Basil the second he comes through to 1943. Which means she’ll need Vision, since she doesn’t have the juice to take out a time deity on her own.

And from there it’s just deposit the bodies in the appropriate place and stick a coin with her initials on it in one of their mouths (Natasha still can’t believe she does that – it’s so _gauche_ ). It all sounds deceptively simple, so of course, it won’t be.

But Natasha’s got a secret stash of weapons, mysterious black goo that lets her travel through time, and she’ll be damned if she lets anyone get near Steve or Bucky again. And speaking of which, there’s the shirt she used earlier on the foot of the bed, stained glossy black. Natasha leans forward and gingerly picks it up, and maybe it’s her imagination but she can already feel her fingertips tingling.

Okay, she thinks, taking a deep breath. You got this.

\--

She’s standing on a rooftop in the bright sunlight; stretched out in front of her is Archie, facing the street with a sniper rifle and oblivious to her approach. Natasha pulls out a pistol, aims it at his head. She’d rather he not be pointing the gun at the street when she shoots him, though.

“Hey, Archie,” she says.

He jumps and turns around, and the second she’s got a clear line at his forehead she fires. Archie jerks back into the gravel roof, blood splattering from his forehead, the gunshot reverberating around them. Down on the street someone cries out, and Natasha stares down at Archie, at the look of shock on his dead face.

There’s tar under her tongue and blue in the corners of her vision.

\--

She’s not expecting Basil to show up at the same time he did before, but it doesn’t hurt to check. Natasha waits in the depository for an hour, seated in Archie’s chair with a gun in her hand, and not once does the portal from 1973 open. Which is expected but annoying, because all it proves is that he didn’t come through in that specific hour. He could have come through earlier, or later, or not at all.

Leaning over, Natasha turns on the radio. It takes some fiddling with the dials to get anything other than static, but then the crackling clears up and a man’s voice is saying _– not armed but still highly dangerous, do not initiate contact with him, I repeat DO NOT INITIATE CONTACT, report any sightings of the individual to the nearest law enforcement officer –_

Natasha sits up straight, leaning towards the radio to hear better. Give me a description, she thinks. Tell me what he looks like –

_Furthermore, citizens are urged not to touch the black liquid, as its effects may be harmful. It is not yet known whether this is a new type of chemical warfare –_

Chewing her lip, Natasha sits back in the chair, tapping the gun against her leg. It’s too late to intercept Basil now, if he’s out in public and they’re making radio announcements about him. Clearly she needs to go back even farther than an hour ago.

Last time he came through almost immediately after I threatened Archie, she remembers. What if that’s what happens this time around?

So she needs to find Basil, she needs to find Vision. Basil first, probably, and the best place to start looking is right here, six hours ago. Closing her eyes, she turns inside herself and wills herself to go back, but after an initial flicker there’s… nothing. She’s in the same chair, with the same evening light filtering in.

Fine, she growls internally, pulling the goop-stained shirt out of her pocket. Enough with doing things incrementally, she doesn’t have time for this –

Natasha wrings the shirt out until her hands are black and dripping, crumples it back into her jacket pocket. Staring down at her hands – they look like they’re gloved in oil – she considers how she best wants to do this. Basil initially grabbed her throat and sent her flying, Bucky got a faceful and died –

Tilting her hands back, Natasha reaches up and cups her own neck, smearing the black liquid from jaw to collarbone. It’s like an electric shock, energy like cold metal blasting through her, and she sucks in a breath as the world briefly flashes indigo –

\--

“Natasha,” says Vision, blue eyes wide.

“Vision,” she responds, and coughs, wiping the corner of her mouth. “Finally…”

She staggers, nearly falling into a man in a long coat; Vision jumps forward and steadies her, steering off out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. “Natasha,” he says again, clearly worried. “What’s happened –”

“Took me a while to find you,” she says, and coughs again, black smeared on her hand. “What day is it?”

“June seventh.” He’s still in his human guise, brow wrinkling as he frowns at her.

“Oh,” says Natasha, keeping herself upright with the help of the building wall. “Okay so this is after the depository –”

“Yes, after you left I didn’t think I could return to 2046 in good conscience while you were still in danger –”

“I’m fine,” she says reflexively.

“No, you’re not, look at yourself – what _happened –_ ”

“I had to find you. I need you to kill Basil –” She’s cut short by a bout of coughing that has her clinging to the wall, black liquid spattering from her lips onto the ground. “I’ve been jumping through time –”

Vision doesn’t just look worried, he looks appalled. “How much?”

“I don’t know,” Natasha says, recovering. “Too much. I had to find Basil too.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No, but I know where he was.” She grabs onto Vision’s arm, ready to take him with her, and notices dully that her fingers spark blue when she makes contact. “We need to –”

“Natasha, _wait_ ,” says Vision, putting his hand over her wrist. “Were you already there?”

“Yes, but –”

“You can’t do that, it’ll create a paradox –”

“No, it won’t,” she says, tightening her grip and looking him straight in the eyes. There’s an electric prickling in her gut, the paving rough under her stockinged feet. “I was always there, now I’m just returning –”

“Natasha –”

She sinks her fingers into his arm and takes them back.

\--

“But how can this be,” says Vision. “How can you change events you already experienced –”

“Schrödinger’s cat,” says Natasha. They’re on the third floor of the depository, golden light filtering in through cracks in the boarded windows. The circle on the floor where Basil will come through is stark white against the floor. “There’s multiple possibilities. But only one comes true when I leave the box.”

“And what exactly is the plan?” says Vision cautiously, standing beside Natasha.

“Basil’s going to come through any minute now,” she says. “Destroy him. Then we grab his body and Archie’s, stick a coin in one of their mouths, and bury them by the Hudson.” For a second her vision flickers sapphire, and then the world is restored to its proper hues. “Then we can go home.”

“And you’re sure he’ll be here?”

“Yes.”

Vision sighs, his appearance rippling as he sheds his disguise. “I don’t doubt you, merely –”

Suddenly the air is charged like before a thunderstorm and Natasha can smell iron and oxide and everything is outlined in cobalt. Beside her Vision draws himself up, fists clenched, Infinity Stone glowing gold, and she tightens her grip on her gun –

Blue lightning crackles through the air, and a man stumbles into the chalk circle. At first Natasha doesn’t recognize him, and then she realizes – it’s Basil. She just didn’t know him because he looks so _normal._ He’s in a shirt and slacks, he’s wearing glasses, he’s got brown hair and sideburns –

– and the blue lightning is everywhere, it’s inside Natasha, the world is violent shades of cerulean and her entire body is cold and tingling with energy and there’s the very definite feeling that _she is not alone in her head._

Not this again, she growls. You can’t be in here –

_Oh, but I like it, you are so smart and strong –_

This is MINE!

_You will be so much stronger now, you can save this man, you can do everything –_

Natasha’s vaguely conscious that she’s still standing, her vision tilted blue and black and something oily-slick on her tongue and fingers, she can see Archie in front of her looking terrified and off in the corner of her vision is something painfully gold and burning-bright. “Natasha,” says a voice from where the burning gold is, distant. “Natasha, if you can hear me, if you have any agency give me a sign –”

“ _I’m here_ ,” she says, except it’s not in a language she understands –

_Kill him, yes, let’s kill him, so many ways, we could wrap our hands around his stringy little neck, we could pull his lungs out through his mouth, we could open his ribcage like wings –_

A headshot is cleanest, says Natasha, and aims her gun at Basil. Except at the same time she knows Vision is about to knock both her and Basil flat on the ground with a blast of that horrible burning light in a quarter of a second, and she won’t have time to fire before then –

_RUN RUN RUN PUT OUT THE LIGHT DON’T LET IT BURN US –_

Her entire body tenses to run but _she’s not doing that_ and Natasha snarls, she will not let this thing control her –

The burning glow is far too close –

Searing pain seizes the sides of her face and Natasha screams, a hoarse gurgling screech she didn’t know she could make, and it feels like fire is running through her veins, there’s blinding light behind her eyelids and she feels like she is being blasted apart from the inside out –

It takes a long time to come down off of what feels like a dizzying height. But eventually she does, and finds she is lying on the floor, her eyes closed, the sides of her face tingling like they’ve been burnt. Her entire body _aches_.

“Vision?” she says automatically, opening her eyes, and the world is very not-blue. It’s gone, Kāla’s gone, and she sits up slowly. It’s like coming out of mind control, like seeing the world clearly for the first time…

“Natasha?” says Vision weakly, to her left, and Natasha turns to him in alarm. He’s lying on the floor, looking visibly paler, his palms glowing fitfully, golden cape spread limply behind him like a wilted petal.

“What happened?” Natasha crouches over him, touching a hand experimentally to his head. He feels cool, almost cold, especially the exposed vibranium. “Was that you?”

“I managed to… I don’t think I killed Kāla, but I drove it out of you…” He draws in a breath with effort, eyes fixed on Natasha’s face. “It took a great deal of strength…”

“Apparently,” murmurs Natasha, looking him over. This is… not something she knows how to deal with, she has no idea where to even begin. “What should I do?”

“For me? Nothing,” says Vision. “I just need to… recharge…”

It hits Natasha suddenly and horribly that there should be a third person in the room.

“Vision,” she says, looking around them, “where’s Basil?”

He lifts his head weakly, eyes scanning the room. “Ah,” he says. “He must have run off… I thought I incapacitated him as well but it appears I was mistaken…”

“I need to go after him,” says Natasha. “He’s probably coming for Steve right now.”

“Probably.”

Her every instinct tells her to go in pursuit, but Vision looks so pathetic and helpless lying on the floor, it’s unnerving. “I can’t leave you here…”

“I’ll be fine, I just need time,” he says. “Go.”

“But what about – can you get back to your time?”

“It’s all set up,” he says. “Don’t worry about me. Find Basil.”

She's got two guns in her coat pockets, and that's all she needs - touching a hand briefly to Vision's shoulder, Natasha rises to her feet and breaks out into a dead sprint.

 

[1] Fun meta fact – this was my original draft of the plot.


	8. Chapter 8

> “The amazing thing is that chaotic systems don’t always stay chaotic… Sometimes they spontaneously rearrange themselves into an orderly structure… They become more and more chaotic until they reach some sort of chaotic critical mass. When that happens, they spontaneously reorganize themselves at a higher equilibrium level. It’s called self-organized criticality.”
> 
> \- _Bellwether,_ Connie Willis

 

She steals a car at gunpoint, driving furiously through the streets of Brooklyn amidst mad shouting and honking. Basil’s headed to Steve’s apartment, or he will be if he’s worth his salt as an assassin, and Natasha might not beat him there to it but she will damn well try. With any luck Steve will still be at church –

She comes to a screeching halt beside Steve’s apartment, ignoring the cabbie shouting after her, and dashes up to his floor, taking the stairs three at a time, hand on the gun in her pocket – she’s short of breath when she reaches the top, fuck, Natasha has a second to think, I’m getting old –

The door to Steve’s apartment is shut. Natasha knows better than to rush in blindly and draws herself up against the wall beside it, reaching gingerly out to touch the latch.

It’s locked.

Well, that proves nothing. Either Basil’s not here, or he is and he was smart enough to lock the door after him. Natasha could pick it easily, but not necessarily stealthily, and she does not enjoy the mental image of Basil yanking the door open, gun in hand, while she’s crouched over the lock.

Right, she thinks. Sorry, Steve, and kicks the door open.

It flies open with a bang and she jumps in the room, gun pointed at an only slightly-startled Basil. He’s got his pistol trained on her too. “Are you S.H.I.E.L.D.?” he says.

“Yes.”

“Are you from the future too?”

“Maybe.”

It’s a almost-Mexican standoff, they’ve both got their guns pointed directly at the other’s forehead, standing five feet apart in a sparsely furnished living room. Natasha doesn’t dare take her eyes off him to look around for any sort of tactical advantage, but she highly dislikes the fact that her back is to the open door. If she had her shoes on she’d kick one at him.

For a moment she wishes for some of that spine-tingling power that she’d had while possessed by Kāla. One blast, and she could send Basil rocketing through time and space –

“What the hell is going on?” says Bucky Barnes.

“Duck!” screams Natasha, and fires.

There’s the ringing sound of two gunshots and she doesn’t know if hers has hit because she’s ducking out of the way, and Bucky shouts and there’s another shot and Natasha fires again at Basil, multiple times, but suddenly there’s a blinding flash and a loud bang and she’s knocked to the floor, ears ringing and eyes full of spots…

Head spinning, Natasha pushes herself upright. Someone on her left groans, and she turns to see Bucky dazedly picking himself up off the floor, a bag of groceries spilled beside him. “What was – what –”

“Flash grenade,” says Natasha grimly. “He got away.” Not entirely, though, she marks with satisfaction – there’s blood splatters leading into the next room. Getting to her feet, she follows them into the bedroom and to the open window, the screen torn through. “Well, shit.”

“Wait a minute,” says Bucky, and Natasha turns to see him standing, frowning at her. “I know you…”

“Yes,” she says automatically. “You do.”

“You’re that dame who was watching Steve at the bar the other night…”

“Yes.”

“Pardon my French,” says Bucky, “but what the _hell_ is going on –”

If this is the right timeline, then she needs to tell Bucky as little as possible. “Nothing you need to concern yourself about, Mr. Barnes, this is a matter of national security –”

His blue eyes widen. “What’s that got to do with Steve?”

“This has nothing to do with Rogers –”

“Yes it does, of course it does, first you’re followin’ him at a bar and then you’re fighting some guy in his apartment –” Bucky sets his jaw, hands clenching into fists. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing that concerns you –”

“The hell it does, this is my best friend!” His eyes are blazing now, and Natasha knows he won’t let her go without an answer, and with every second Basil is getting farther and farther away. “If he’s in danger –”

She could leave now and Bucky would just chase after her, tearing through New York City in an attempt to protect Steve. It’s not the first time it’s happened (except yes, if it did, that _would_ make it the first time, but whatever). Even if she knocks him out it’ll just happen later.

“If he is in danger the best thing you can do is stand back and let me complete my assignment,” she says, and turns to look out the window. There’s more blood on the windowsill, but she’s too high up to tell if there’s any on the ground. Basil’s probably headed back to the depository, though – he’s wounded, that’s his home base.

“Not happening,” says Bucky. “You could work for the damn president for all I care –”

“That’s nice, because I do,” says Natasha, calling his bluff. It doesn’t stymie him.

“– but Steve’s my friend and if you think I’m not going to watch out for him –”

“ _Fine,_ ” says Natasha, a convenient solution coming to mind. “Go watch out for him. He’s probably at church right now, yeah?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so –”

“Then go find him and stop bothering me.”

Bucky glares at her warily. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. One condition, though – you can’t tell him about any of this.” Natasha fixes him with her gaze, wondering if she can use mind control to embed the idea in his brain. “You got that? _None_ of this.”

“Yeah,” says Bucky, looking slightly mollified. “Yeah, okay –”

“Now get out of here.”

He turns and goes, not before shooting her one last suspicious look. You realize he’s going to tell Steve everything, right? her internal monologue says.

Probably, sighs Natasha. But I’ll be damned if that’s my problem now.

\--

She was right about Basil heading back to the depository. She does so like it when she’s right. It’s almost anticlimactic – she just walks in and up the stairs and there he is on the third floor, hunched over in his chair with his shirt off, making wounded animal noises as he tries to dig the bullet out of his shoulder. “Here,” says Natasha, “let me get that for you,” and shoots him in the head.

He crumples forward against the desk. Natasha waits for a second (just to be sure) and then walks over to him. Basil does not make an attractive corpse, with a slack face and blood smeared all over a pale and unmuscled body. Not that she makes a habit of judging corpses for attractiveness, but it’s the kind of thing you sometimes just notice, and he really looks unappealing, and… fuck, she’s tired.

“Need some help transporting that?” says Vision.

Natasha nearly jumps; she’d forgotten Vision might still be around, she’d assumed he’d be back in 2046 by now. “Actually,” she says, “I’m fine with him but I think I left Archie on the rooftop, you think you could go get him in the past and bring him to the burial site, or…?”

“All right,” says Vision. He’s looking significantly better than when Natasha last saw him, the color back in his face, and he’s standing upright and un-wilted. “I can manage that.”

\--

Vision slings Archie’s body off his shoulders and into the double grave Natasha’s dug; Archie’s arm catches limply on the edge of the hole and she nudges it in with her foot. “Well,” says Natasha, looking down at him and Basil in the grave. The grass around them is very green, the Hudson River patina’d bronze by the sun. They might very well be in the same spot Natasha came through to initially test the time machine, so long ago – she has no way of knowing for sure, but it would have a satisfying symmetry.

“I still find it difficult to believe no one saw either of us with a corpse in tow,” says Vision, looking down at the dead bodies as well.

“I find it difficult to believe that about _you_ ,” says Natasha, subtly mocking his accent. “I’ve had lots of practice discreetly disposing of bodies.”

“I believe it,” murmurs Vision.

“Also,” says Natasha, “how come you were able to kill Kāla in one timeline and then blast it out of me in another? It’s a deity, you’re strong but you don’t have _that_ kind of power…”

“Ah,” says Vision. “Yes. I’m afraid I misspoke when I labelled Kāla as a deity. More accurately, I believe them to be a _fragment_ of a deity, a tiny piece torn off a much larger and more powerful consciousness.”

If that was only a fragment, then… “Holy shit.”

“Yes,” says Vision. “Let’s never meet the real one, shall we?”

“Agreed.”

They contemplate the bodies below them in silence, a bird chirping away in the trees behind them. Eventually Vision sighs. “Shall we?” he says.

Natasha pulls the quarter out of her pocket, having already carved her initials into it with a penknife. “Sorry, fellas,” she says, and crouches to stick the quarter in Archie’s mouth. Her fingers come away cold and slimy from contact with his dead tongue, and she wipes them on Vision’s sleeve. “Should have stayed in the 70’s.”

“I’m really looking forward to getting back to my time,” says Vision, and picks up the shovel.

\--

It occurs to Natasha that she should probably let Bucky know Steve’s no longer in danger, considering there’s still about a week to go before Steve meets Erskine.

“Mr. Barnes,” she says, late one night when Bucky’s leaving Steve’s apartment. His shoulders tighten and he turns to face her; she’s in the doorway of her own apartment, one shoulder against the doorframe. “Come inside? I want to talk to you about something.”

He frowns, biting the inside of his cheek, and Natasha smiles reassuringly. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“Fine,” says Bucky, and crosses the hallway. Stepping aside to let him in, Natasha closes the door and locks it behind them, then turns around. Bucky’s standing in the middle of the living room, fingers twitching uncomfortably. “What is it?”

“I just thought I should tell you that Rogers is no longer in danger.”

“Oh.” Bucky’s eyes widen briefly, shoulders losing some of their tension. “Oh, um, okay. That’s good.”

“Mm-hm!” Natasha nods, leaning against the door with her hands folded in the small of her back.

“Look, ma’am, if you don’t mind me asking…” says Bucky, “what was it? Now that it’s over –”

“I’m sorry,” says Natasha. “I still can’t tell you that.”

“– because I’m wracking my brains tryin’ to think of what Steve could have done that would get him government protection, let alone someone comin’ after him in the first place, and I’m coming up with nothing…”

“That you know of –”

“Look, he’s my best friend, I think I’d know,” says Bucky, glowering at her. “Is he caught up in some sort of conspiracy thing? Is it a money problem? I got money –”

“No, no, not that –”

“Well, if you don’t want to tell me then I’ll just ask him, and I know he will –”

Bucky can’t talk to Steve about this, he _can’t –_ “It’s not something Rogers has done yet,” Natasha sighs. “It’s…it’s something he’s going to do.”

He stares at Natasha for a long, long time. “And what’s that?” he says at last.

“I can’t tell you. And trust me, you can’t ask Rogers about this. He doesn’t know either.”

Bucky continues to look at her, but now there’s a slight frown behind it, and Natasha knows he’s thinking very, very hard about this. Bucky’s not an idiot, he’ll come to his own conclusions and she’s not sure if that needs to happen. “Well, that’s all I’m authorized to tell you,” she says, pulling away from the door and opening it. “Have a nice night, Mr. Barnes.”

He nods at her and starts forward, still clearly ruminating. But in the doorway he stops and turns back, chewing his lip. “Tell me, Miss – what was it?”

“Roman.”

“Who won the World Series last year?”

This question, _again._ There has to be significance behind it, but Natasha doesn’t have a clue how to answer –

“I have rather more important things to pay attention to,” she says. “Now, please –”

“Holy shit,” breathes Bucky, eyes wide. “You’re – no way –”

Natasha freezes in the act of shutting the door in his face. “I’m sorry?”

“There’s – there’s no way –” He’s staring at her again, but this time in utter disbelief. “There’s no goddamn way…”

He knows, thinks Natasha suddenly, he figured it out, _how_ – “I’m afraid I have no idea of what you’re talking about,” she says icily, attempting to close the door. “Please leave –”

“You’re from the future, aren’t you?” says Bucky. “You time travelled.”

Natasha lets every bit of disbelief she’s feeling show on her face, and he’ll never know that it’s because he figured out the truth. “I’m sorry, that’s a little bit ridiculous –”

“Look, I read my H.G. Wells, I know what I’m talking about,” says Bucky. “It’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

Natasha can’t help her bark of laughter. “I can think of plenty –”

“Well, it makes sense to me,” says Bucky stubbornly. “I mean, look at how much technology’s changing. Who’s to say where we’ll be in the future?”

She doesn’t have words to respond, just leans against the doorframe and looks at him with a mixture of sympathy and admiration. Yes, you’re right, she thinks. More right than you know.

“All right,” says Bucky, “if you can’t tell me because it breaks some kind of law, I get it. That’s probably why I can’t tell Steve anything, huh?”

“On the money, Mr. Barnes.”

“Got it.” He smiles briefly, a wry pull of his lips to the side, and Natasha suddenly remembers seeing that same expression on his face, far in the future when the lines are deeper and his hair longer. “Pleasure meeting you, Miss Roman.”

He steps into the hallway and Natasha thinks that’s finally the end of it when Bucky turns back, a question on his face. “One more thing –”

“Yes?” Natasha stops closing the door, smiles at him from somewhere between fond and exasperated. “What is it?”

“You know about Steve from the future, so you probably know about me, and – and do I make it? The war, I mean. Do I survive?”

There’s hope in his eyes, hope like Natasha’s never seen before, and for a moment she’s unable to respond. “Yes,” she manages at last, throat tight. “Yes, you do.”

“Oh good.” Bucky’s shoulders sag in profound relief, a smile stretching across his face. “Because I’ve been worrying about that, you know, about what’d happen to my family if I – if I didn’t make it, and what Steve’d do without me…”

Natasha just smiles and hopes it doesn’t look forced. “Is it that all?”

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “Yeah, that’s all.”

\--

The week until she has to make her rendezvous passes quietly. Natasha spends the first day of it in bed, her body recovering from innumerable time jumps and being possessed by the fragment of a time deity. From then all she has to do is exist, living as unobtrusively as possible (and still keeping as much of an eye on Steve as she can manage, it would be her luck that he would survive assassination attempts in two timelines only to trip over his own shoelace and break his neck) but it’s uneventful. Very.

She has the place for her rendezvous (the same alleyway the time machine dropped her off in) and she has her time (June 14th, seven pm, as Bucky and Steve enter the World Exposition of Tomorrow). She just needs to get there.

And so that summer evening, muggy air drifting through her open window, Natasha carefully gathers up each and every thing, and _only_ every thing, that she brought with her to the past, and packs it in her suitcase. She has an envelope, carefully sealed, containing a letter informing her landlady of her sudden need to go home to her ailing mother that she will drop in her landlady’s mailbox. She throws out the bits of food left in the fridge into the bin in the alley, gathers everything together, locks the door, and… that’s that. There’s really no reason to linger.

Letter and key dropped off, Natasha heads down the street, heels striking the sidewalk at a brisk clip, and the farther she gets the faster she walks… she’s going _home_ , back to 2018, and Clint will be there, and it’s going to wonderful like taking her shoes off at the end of a very, very long day. She crosses the street, turns a corner, and yes, there’s the two buildings that the alley she needs is in between, she’s almost there –

“Natalie!” calls a female voice. “Natalie, wait!” and there’s the sound of running footsteps. Natasha turns to see Charlie running full tilt towards her, waving what might be a newspaper. “Natalie!”

She’s got a good ten minutes to spare, Natasha knows better than to show up at her rendezvous at the last minute, but a conversation with Charlie could last hours. “Natalie!” says Charlie again, skidding to a breathless halt. “Thank goodness I found you, your apartment was empty…”

“How – how do you know where I live?” asks Natasha, frowning.

“Oh, I asked Mr. Bower.” Charlie is indeed holding a newspaper, but once she looks down at it in her hand she drops it, as if she hadn’t realized she was holding it. “Are you – are you leavin’?”

“That’s what the suitcase is for, yes.”

“I thought so,” sighs Charlie. “That’s why I wanted to – here –”

Pulling her coat around, she rummages in the pockets before bringing something out and holding it out for Natasha to see. It’s a small journal, leatherbound, with a string wrapping around it. “Thought this would be useful,” says Charlie, shrugging. “So you can chronicle your adventures.”

“I – thanks,” says Natasha, suddenly touched. Taking the journal, she slips it in her own pocket; Charlie’s looking at her steadily, light from the setting sun glinting on messy curls and brushing her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” says Charlie, and before Natasha can react she’s jumped forward and kissed Natasha on the cheek. “Tell your boy hi from me.”

“I will.”

Charlie smiles, takes a couple steps back, and then turns and heads back down the street. Natasha watches to make sure Charlie won’t watch _her,_ and then when the coast is clear she walks as fast as she can to the alleyway, turns the corner, there’s that bit of pavement hidden from the street…

Standing in the right spot, Natasha sets her suitcase down at her feet and pulls her Stark watch out of her pocket. She’s got three minutes and forty-two seconds to go – forty-one – forty –

Natasha clenches her fingers around it, takes a deep breath and shuts her eyes. It’ll work, she tells herself, hearing the city as if from far away around her, and the pounding of her heart very near and close. It’ll work. Tony and Jane and Maria and Clint and Steve will all get you through –

With the sun dipping below the city line, the muggy air on her skin begins to cool. She can smell tar and what might be tobacco smoke.

There’s a faint shimmer in the air, and a hum like sizzling telephone wires –

 

**2018**

Natasha steps out of the time machine, aware of many people on their feet and looking at her. “See?” she says. “Wasn’t long at all,” and collapses into Clint’s arms.

\--

The sunshine is warm on Natasha’s head and shoulders, the cup of coffee in her hand even hotter. Her other fingers are wrapped securely through Clint’s as they stroll through the park, his shoulder occasionally brushing against hers.

“And so I went to the rendezvous, I waited, the time machine brought me through, and – here I am,” says Natasha. Clint has been staring ahead the entire story, which is how she knows he’s listening intently; Steve and Bucky, also walking hand-in-hand on her other side, have more or less been looking at her. “So that’s that.”

“Jesus,” says Steve, and takes a sip of his own coffee. “So all that happened, and I never even…”

“Well, in some universe you did,” says Natasha. “I think. I’m still not sure on the mechanics of this.”

“I’m glad you made it,” says Clint gruffly, and Natasha squeezes his hand.

“But you – you talked to her,” says Steve to Bucky, who is frowning. “And you don’t remember this?”

Bucky sighs. “Actually, I do,” he says. “Have for a while.”

All three of them stop to stare at Bucky, who grimaces. “Buck,” says Steve, at the same time Natasha says, “What do you mean, ‘for a _while?’_ ”

“I mean I thought you looked familiar, after I stopped being the Winter Soldier,” says Bucky. “And then at some point it clicked, you know, random memories come back and this was one, except I thought it had to be wrong, there was no possible way…”

“Until the time machine project started,” says Natasha slowly.

“Yeah.”

“But why didn’t you tell us?” says Steve, who’s looking at Bucky like it was a personal betrayal.

Bucky shrugs. “Didn’t want to mess up the past,” he says. “What if I told Nat this would happen and by trying to make it happen, she changed things? Didn’t want to fuck things up.”

“Well,” says Steve.

“It all worked out,” says Natasha. “Now all that needs to happen is someone has to go back and be my mysterious helper…”

“That won’t be happening for a while,” says Clint.

Natasha looks at him, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Time machine broke right after you came through. Tony and Jane are still trying to fix it, but they’re stumped. Not even sure what’s causing the problem in the first place.”

Natasha’s tongue and fingers prickle with forgotten energy, and for a second the corners of her vision flicker blue. “I’m sure they’ll get it fixed,” she says, as casually as possible. “Jane’s a genius, and Tony’s – well…”

“A mad genius,” offers Steve.

“Yes,” agrees Natasha, and they resume walking. A jogger runs by them, open-mouthed Golden Retriever bounding alongside, and Natasha only half-notices Clint’s gaze follow the dog longingly. This isn’t over yet, she realizes. In 2046 they’ll fix the time machine, and Vision will go back to help me. And she knows – deep down, she _knows_ – that that will hardly be the end of it.

After all, she’s read her sci-fi.


End file.
